Ho Hoo Ho and all a that boollocks. Welcoome to thee WSAG Christmas C s Special. A free e--zine featuuring a seelection box off articles from f the first f three issues off this seasson. You'll know if you've been following f us that alll these isssues havve sold ouut so we thought we'd put them out o in this way as a Christmaas gift to all a everyonne out theere. You'll also find that, t due to the woonders of modern teechnologyy the e-zinne is in f colourr but it's not. n You see s due tto our com mputer full colour. Well, I say, full meltdoown in Auugust we'vve only goot the prinnt files off #169 so they're inn black and white. w So itt turns coolour abouut a third of o way thrrough. Bitt like the Wizard W of Oz. There's even e a few w new pagges at thee back. y like what w you see s we'ree on the issland as normal So theere you haave it. If you on Boxxing Day with w the foourth issuue of the season. s C Come and say hello Grahaam and Phil, Chrisstmas 20112.
WSAG1 W 169 - August 2012 2 Out for the first game, g Maan Utd. Fu ull of cautious opttimism
WELCOME back to When Skies are Grey. Here we go again. Back on the island and elsewhere. How many seasons is it now? We haven’t messed around too much over the summer with the issue although you will find a few new bits dotted around. Just the way we know you like it. We’re also putting more stuff online so don’t forget to get involved in the various bits we have going on via Twitter and Facebook. Cheers Graham and Phil.
FIRST things first. God bless Tim Cahill. What a great player he was for us. The modern game doesn’t always create club legends as players move on all too quickly (or not quickly enough). But from the day he arrived to the day he left Tim Cahill got Everton and took it upon himself to embody everything that we hold dear. That may sound a little sentimental but if you can’t get misty‐eyed about stuff like this there’s no hope for you. Come back and say goodbye.
AS MEN of a certain age we hold on to simple truths like tattoos are only for Yorkies and Geordies. Not these days. The loss of Cahill meant that we lost a full arm tazza but thankfully (or not) Ross Barkley has stepped into the breach. We’re not fans but accept that times have clearly changed and we’ve been left behind like teddy boys who refuse to accept that Elvis is dead. Grudging respect to him for including the date of his Everton debut though.
The Hibbert Riot was a joy to behold. A real laugh out loud, heart‐warming moment. A couple of stewards clearly weren’t in on the plan as they chased the early invaders across the pitch. The Club have managed the aftermath perfectly, realising the humour of the situation – that said though, they had to as they were responsible for the posters for the game. However don’t expect the Club to be so charitable should similar scenes occur following a Hibbert blammer fly in during a league game.
Is it good business to re‐sign a player for more money than you sold him for when he hardly even started a game down there? When it’s Steven Pienaar the answer is absolutely hell yes. Surely no one else can think any differently. We love Pienaar here at WSAG. We are a much better team when he plays. He is always available for the ball and is a master at holding possession ‐ such a player is integral to the way we play. Welcome back Steven.
Finally, the kit. Nike was the brand many supporters wished for so it seems a little odd that the response has been lukewarm – especially for the home kit. Why? We were never going to get a bespoke design – it’s not the way and hasn’t been for ever, right back to Umbro in 76 some might say. As kits go it looks pretty smart on the players and on kids and that, for us, means it essentially does its job. For the aesthetes, the long sleeved home is mustard.
onward evertonians As a ex parka wearing, monkey booted then floppy haired pop star once said a good start is hard to find. As close seasons go, this one, to date, hasn’t been bad and whilst it’s fair to say that we’ll have a far better idea about how 2012-13 is going to pan out on September 1st, for now its cautious optimism. It’s no secret that Everton have financial problems, but despite what the internet sages would have you believe, nobody outside the club really knows the true picture. So whilst there was never going to be an abundance of 15 million pound new signings, time will tell if the banks are really demanding the likes of a Baines or Fellaini every summer. For now, the suns still shining (well it’s stopped raining anyway), the birds are singing and anything seems possible. The main reason for all this guarded optimism is obviously the Blues form since the end of January. Derbies apart (and Wembley still rankles) the team were magnificent with the January additions of Gibson, Pienaar and the
frankly wonderful Nikica Jelavic pivotal in turning the season around. The football was at times sublime and it all culminated with a contemptuous dismissal against last season’s surprise packet Newcastle on the final day.
With the re signing of everyones favourite, deep voiced god botherer Steven Pienaar and the addition of Jelavic’s old hun mate Stephen Naismith, things are looking promising. The season’s opener against United apart the early fixtures don’t look particularly taxing and whilst we’ve said the same before a number of recent seasons, surely we’re due a decent start. Talking of which there’s been plenty of talk about training regimes and the quality of our pre season opponents as possible reasons for our traditional shit start. Another factor could be the uncertainty in recent years as to who would be coming and going. Who could forget the Arsenal game in 2009 and Joleon Lescotts titty lip. Last season meanwhile the whole club appeared shrouded in the depression that culminated in Mikkel Arteta’s last minute departure. This year, despite some ropey performances in pre season, things do appear a shade brighter and in many respects, there could be no better starter than United at Goodison. Now when the fixtures came out, some fans, ie: us, wondered whether there was something sinister in the fact that yet again we’ve ended up with United (or Arsenal) on the opening day. With the plod insisting on a ridiculous early kick off for no other reason than to justify their existence in these times of austerity and Sky seeing it as an ideal curtain raiser, it was all too easy to see United easing to a standard 0-2 opener (Young 23, Rooney 57). Goodison being half empty by 2PM and the scruffs singing all manner of shit anti scouse songs, that’s unless they’ve moved onto City these days. The message boards would be full of doom and gloom and the Toffees would be bottom of the league before anyone else had kicked a ball. All in all, a shit day all round. Instead the authorities have come up with a Monday night slot for this one and it has to be said that this may be of some help. Firstly, there won’t be the complacency that may creep in against a Southampton or Reading and there’s also the Goodison under lights factor to take into account.
There’ll be plenty of punters taking an early dart from work, with the intention of getting as pissed as possible, there’s the anticipation of the first game of the season against one of the title favourites and ofcourse those whoppers in the away end. Goodison is made for nights like these and all it needs is a dodgy refereeing decision and a few meaty challenges and then Nani’s getting spat at by loons in the paddock and the ground is shaking. United may well come and do a job on us, like they’ve done on many an occasion over the years, but its easy to see them finding it harder at an angry bear pit than at a docile early kick off. One scenario that we guarantee will happen is old Tory Ferguson waxing lyrical (Redknapp style) about Leighton Baines (if he’s still with us by then) in the Sundays with the Mirror leading the charge.
The lovely Helena models this season's choice of footwear for WSAG.
Welcome back!
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ome readers may know Dave, a massive Blue and a major face in kids football in the Norris Green and Croxteth areas. As well as coaching at the Everton academy, Dave is a referee in kids football and has done much to get kids off the streets in estates which have their fare share of social problems. A great raconteur, Dave is a well loved figure in the community. During the summer, Dave unfortunately suffered two strokes, with the main result being an initial loss of speech, possibly the most frustrating thing that could have happened (as those who know Dave would fully appreciate)! One amusing thing that did occur was the day after his first stroke when anxious doctors and relatives were urging Dave to try to speak. The only words that he could utter were “It’s a Grand Old Team”!
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t’s not taken the weird accented Mike Walker long to adapt to his new surroundings across the park. Brendan Rodgers, I mean. Come on, keep up. First of all we had the obligatory guff about how his dad was a lifelong red and how he understood the “fabric” of the club and what it means to the “people of the city”. My favourite however was his snotty outburst when that Sigurdsson fella jibbed them for Tottenham. Apparently, he
offered a “football vision” whilst Spurs offered money. Honestly you couldn’t make it up.
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ne of the most depressing stories of the year has been the John Terry/Anton Ferdinand race row.
The worst thing hasn’t been the whole “did he, didn’t he” argument (which he clearly did) but how the whole racism debate has been lost in a mountain of tabloid outrage and point scoring by tithead football fans. Do the redtops really give a shite about anything except circulation figures. It’s a bit rich of the likes of the Sun, Express and Mail to pontificate about “vile race hate abuse” and the unacceptable side of football, when their news pages spread hate and intolerance on a daily basis with scare stories about “tides of eastern european scroungers, milking the system dry”. As for football fans, do the Chelsea knobs who have complained to the plod about Rio Ferdinand really understand or care about the meaning and nuances of the Choc ice jibe or is it just about what colour football jersey he wears? And while we’re on about racism. What the fuck is wrong with that Suarez?
5 talking points for the new campaign 1. Evolution (not revolution) Last season’s post new year success (particularly at home) was based on a two phased approach to winning games. Invariably Phase 1 would involve aggressive pressing on opponents to make errors with even possession, force opportunities and get in front. Phase 2 involves defending 10 yards deeper, surrendering possession and putting 10 men behind the ball. For the second season running our share of possession per game dropped and whilst this has got results this more reactive style will only get us so far. Defensively it means we are rock solid – only the Manchester clubs conceded fewer goals last season than us, but the focus on getting 10 men behind the ball inhibits productivity going forward – for example we scored the joint fewest goals (1) from fast break situations in the league. Does Moyes look to evolve? We did try to play a more proactive possession based style at the start of 10/11 but this was undone by a lack of end product and left us a bit more open at the back. With players comfortable on the ball like Pienaar, Osman and Gibson plus the end product of Jelavic will Moyes may be tempted to give evolution another crack?
2. Rodwell Sale Jack Rodwell's departure from the club was met with a mixed response from a fanbase whose opinion on him as a player was divided. Critics argue he is a sideways passer and this is the only reason he topped our pass completion chart last season. In a team that attacks down the flanks (74%) more than anyone in the top flight, this was exactly his brief i.e. to collect from defence and circulate to the flanks and not to look for defence splitting passes through the middle. His passing was predominantly sideways – last season he was in the top 5 players in Europe’s elite leagues for percentage of sideways passes with the fourth most (65.1%). When you look at who tops the list (Paul Scholes with 71%) and Xavi coming in 5th with 64.9% it isn't bad company is it? Off the ball, his doubters will point to the fact that he is not physical enough and won't impose himself on opponents...this is fair enough but it needs to be put into context. Football has for a long time now been moving away from being a contact sport. Tackling invariably risks conceding free kicks which can lead to goals. Anticipation and positional intelligence are now far more important. It’s no surprise that Spain’s number one method of regaining possession in their Euro 2012 triumph was via interceptions (not tackles). On the flip side, the emergence of Junior (a player who ironically we picked up from Man City's youth squad via Benfica) as a legitimate midfield shuttler and the pre‐eminent roles of Gibson and Osman, Rodwell’s place was no longer the certainty it was 12 months ago. This, along with his seemingly limited self confidence and wretched injury record probably made Moyes decide the time
was right to trade. if this gives Moyes the opportunity to bring in players in areas we are weaker in (cover for Jelavic is a massive priority) then it will be seen as good business.
3. Replacing Tim Cahill Tim Cahill's departure from the club removes one of the mainstays of the Moyes era and a club icon. Despite this, his significance to the team on the pitch had waned with our win percentage 20% greater in the last 2 seasons with him not in the side. Cahill's bite will be missed; whilst he lost more headers than he won his ability to impact defenders and enable us to win second balls was significant. The overriding feeling for myself is one of relief that Cahill exited now before his iconic status at the club was compromised and before his on‐field presence became completely ineffectual …it could also enable a more fluid proactive style of play as mentioned in point 1 plus it relieves one of the clubs top wage earners.
4. Pienaar & Naismith – Graft and Craft In equal measure Moyes has been looking to tackle the age imbalance of the squad and stepped this up in the summer by replacing arguably the most ineffectual veteran Cahill with Steven Naismith; a player in the key 22‐27 age range we are short on. Naismith brings versatility, goals and craft as well as an ability to win free kicks and generally ‘do a job’ for the team. Deployed at Rangers across all the midfield and forward slots, he has featured on the flanks in pre‐ season and up top alongside Jelavic who he has a decent understanding with from their time north of the border. Pienaar we know all about; his contribution during his loan spell highlighted what we missed in the first half of the season; crucially he created more chances per game, set up more goals, won more free kicks and completed more dribbles than anyone else in our squad in less than half a season. Like Naismith, he is also a grafter with 3.9 possession regains per game ‐ something the enigmatic liability Drenthe didn’t bring to the table.
5. Deployment of Fellaini Moyes has made noises in the summer that the Belgian's impact in the attack / midfield pivot towards the end of last season will see him get more game time here this season. We averaged 2 goals per game with him further forward and just 1 without him advanced last season. The negative is of course that we lose some bite further back in midfield but this shouldn't really be an issue. I can see Moyes picking and choosing when and where he is deployed further forward. Against sides that play out from the back his pressing game is ideally suited to hassling defenders and disrupting their rhythm. Against more agricultural sides like Stoke who will bypass defence and distribute from the keeper with direct play it’s more appropriate for the Belgian to drop deep and support the defence / midfield in winning aimless punts or gobbling up the second balls as he does superbly. My thought is that the flexibility of Fellaini, Naismith and Osman offers the ability for us to switch from a short to long game fluidly as and when required. Read more: http://theexecutionersbong.wordpress.com
also be someone shouting “Get down you dickhead” from the back. But, it doesn’t have to be this way. Maybe there needs to be a bit of a rethink. The basic premise of a union is a solid one so that should give us something to build on. Maybe the Blue Union haven’t been bold enough. Maybe instead of bringing together pressure groups and websites they would be better targeting individuals.
I think supporters unions are the way forward as we increasingly become pawns in the football game. I believe it’s only our own that can stand up for our rights. Given the above, I support the Blue Union. I like the idea of different factions of supporters and supporter groups coming together in one strong union. I wish everyone would join it. Influence it, shape it. Clearly, not all supporters agree. I have watched with dismay as battle-lines have been drawn. Frankly both sides have been as bad as each other but for me, the venom from some quarters who are opposed to the Blue Union has been staggering. Moreover, it’s become horribly personal and as such I doubt stand-points are going to change now. The battle for hearts and minds has been side-stepped in favour of point-scoring and petty squabbles while everyone rushes to claim the higher moral ground. Typical really. Same old story. It seems to happen all the time. While there will always be those who are prepared to put their heads above the parapet to say when things aren’t right, there will
Maybe, like the Spirit of Shankly (I believe) we should all be able to formally join the Blue Union; become a member instead of the interested bystander I – and possibly many others – am. It would take some sorting out but think of the prize. Think of a properly organised union of Evertonians with democratically elected representatives who can speak authoritatively on our behalf because collectively we have authorised them to. What a vision that is. It’s something I’d join and I can’t think of many reasons – other than to be deliberately contrary - why other Blues wouldn’t too. Jimmy Larkin
T O N Y
H I B B E R T A TRIBUTE
A few words on Tony Hibbert. Not everyone’s favourite player and (like many local lads before him) an easy target for some who have to have one when things go wrong. But he’s proper Everton. His testimonial showed that. I used to think that the ‘shoot’ shouts every time he got the ball was disrespectful but now he’s in on the joke, it’s kinda ok. And what about his goal, I loved the way he said he didn’t want any arl arse penalties but any free‐kicks around the box he was having. It was a real Evertonian moment and I’ve yet to come across anyone who doesn’t smile when talking about it. For once there was none of this too cool for school attitude about it. Just wait for the shouts if we get a similar situation against United on the opening day. More than that, though, there aren’t many professional footballers like him anymore. They don’t make them like that these days. Read his comments before and after the game and it’s obvious that he has a special affinity for the club and us as supporters. We should cherish him. Btw can you see the top of our Louis’ head on the picture above. He was Jelavic’s mascot.
Talking Blues The idea is simple: we ask you lot out there a question via email and ask for a response in 100 words or less. For this issue, the question was: What are our chances for this season? Jonathan Bownes: I think our chances have to be rated as strong for the league outside the Sky four. Its always going to be a battle and a huge amount of the season rests on key players staying fit. Goals win games and if Jelly hits the ground running and stays injury free I believe we're in business. We have always been pretty solid at the back, a few players back from injury with a good pre-season behind them and who knows what we're capable of! My hopes are a good FA Cup run and to qualify for the Champions league. I would also like to see Moyes pen a new contract sooner rather than later! So as the Grand Old Lady opens her petit coat for another season that warm feeling of optimism surrounds me like after eating 27 bowls of Ready Break. God I love Everton. Stewart L MacLaren: I think that Everton have a very good chance next Season. Although Tim Cahill will be a loss, the signings of Steven Naismith & Steven Pienaar will more than compensate for that. Thank God David Moyes is still at the helm! As long as The Blues keep the talented duo of Leighton Baines & Fellaini & we start well against Manchester United the Blue half of Merseyside should do better than last time. Greg: Much is dependent on our start. If it is good we can be challenging for fourth spot with the likes of Arsenal, Spurs and Chelsea. If it is the usual start then we will end up in our usual spot. Either
way, we should finish above the Shite. A bit more positivity from Moyes should see us grab points from unlikely situations. I also want a convincing Derby win so badly. That is the real blot on Moyes’s ten years thus far. Naismith and Jelavic could be juicy. COYB. Jonathan: Last season ended on a real high and a feeling of being on the up. Unless we lose one or more key players, there's no real reason why this shouldn't continue. New squad addition Steven Naismith looks promising, but he closely resembles Bobby Brown, one of the Cobras in the original Karate Kid. He was the one who tries to break Daniel's leg in the semi final but is clearly a good guy deep down when he apologises. Quite what this means for the season I'm not sure, so I will remain cautiously optimistic and prepare for disappointment or pleasant
surprises in equal measure. As usual. Mark Ellis: Barring any late sales we have a real chance of keeping last years form going. If everyone stays fit, a top six place is certainly achievable. I just hope he tries to win the League cup for once, but Jelavic is the key to it all. Harvey Weewax: A lot depends upon how well Jelavic and Pienaar play after the influence they had on the team after arriving in January. A good start to the campaign is a must followed by a good cup run in both competitions and the possibility of challenging for at least a Europa League spot come the end of the season. The development of Rodwell and Barkley would be great, as would a win against the reds and a goal from Tony Hibbert would be special. Lets be optimistic, well at least for the first few games.
Nigel Barlow: "I think Jelavic is as good an opportunist finisher we`ve had in years, and if we can keep him fit we have a better chance for a start like the 2004-5 season we all want to see. It goes without saying that if we can turn losses into draws and draws into wins then we could be on for a top 6 finish. Am happy with the business in the close season, but despite the euphoria over Peanuts return hope he`s not being paid more than the £50k he was on before he left. Just hope we keep Jelavic fit & his goal getting generates that confidence boost we always seem to need at the start. COYB
Phil: Sadly the same as every season, in today’s money governed Premiership. Outside chance of top 6 and a decent go in the cups. I am guardedly more optimistic than last time out though. Chris Smith: For once I am optimistic about our chances for the season. We don’t have any injuries, haven’t sold any of our best players and have a decent centre forward in Nikica Jelavic. Tim Cahill moving on may well open up opportunities for others and different ways of playing. I’ve not seen Steven Naismith but have heard good things about him and the permanent return of Steven Pienaar is a massive boost for us. Of course the squad is still small and injuries could hit us hard. I fancy us for a good start to the season and a run in the League Cup. TommyBoy: How's the season gonna pan out...? Let me go out on a limb here; we'll start out shite and get steadily worse. By November we'll all be whinging that we're gonna get relegated but we'll get a couple of plucky results around Christmas that'll lighten the mood. By January we'll be convinced
were gonna win the cup. Up until March we'll be pretty steady and then we'll go on a good run which will see us storm up the table through the dross. We'll finish about sixth. We won't win the cup. Well that's how it usually goes. Oh, and Tony Hibbert won't be top scorer. That'll be that Jelly fella. As you can see, I'm a bit of an expert at this punditry malarkey... Dave Kanchelskis: We'll do well against big teams, underperform against people we shouldn't; I'll get to more games than last season but still not enough that I wont be scrabbling around to get a ticket when we get to Wembley (League Cup?); we won't always be first on MOTD, but we wont always be last (hello Villa); the other lot will do something to let themselves down, and then i'll hope no-one notices 'fan marches' and the like this side; but it'll still all be better than the Euros (as long as we don't bring that 'music man' / pienaar chant back) Phil Garner: Always difficult to say before the transfer window 'slams shut' - never know why they don't close it before the season kicks off rather than allowing a few more weeks which always
leads to a few 'Lescott' type scenarios. I'm going to assume that the only additions to our squad are Pienaar coming back (thank god for some creativity) and Naismith who should be useful. That, coupled with Tim Cahill leaving who was always a massive favourite of mine, should allow us to work on a more frequent two-man attack especially at home. Hopefully Rodwell can come through and contribute massively in the middle of the park and put last season behind him, and we can hang on to Baines to keep the left side as strong as any team in the league. If we can start as we usually finish and perhaps be more positive from the outset with two up front then there is no reason why a top six finish cannot be achieved. However, if we do our annual poor start and languish down in 17th/18th place in October then we'll have to settle for the usual storming 7th place finish and hopefully another cup run. Sorry lads, but until we get some real and credible investment into the club then that is what we have to settle for at the moment. If you want to receive future Talking Blues emails, please contact us at the usual address whenskiesaregrey@btinternet.com
Murderers? There is so much I hate about our neighbours - their arrogance, self-righteousness, their history, behaviour, the dogma of the Kop, their banners, that song, their complete ignorance to how they are perceived by everyone else and their dismissive attitude towards every other club in the country (probably the world) - to name but a few. Another issue I have with them is Heysel; despite the despicable actions of some of their supporters what irks me most is the club’s response to this and the way they have never dealt with it properly. The clubs clumsy response to this terrible disaster has led to much ignorance of any wrongdoing and a complete inability to accept blame or guilt (a familiar theme of late). However, I don't agree with the use of the term ‘murderers’ as a derogatory term or nickname for them as a club. The use of this term has become more prevalent amongst our fans over the past 10 years or so. We mercilessly chant it at them during most derbies (usually when we're losing) and the term is used by many in casual conversation in reference to them; similar to the way many, such as myself, just refer to the them as the ‘shite’. Many may justify the use of the term due the fact it is a crime some of their fans are guilty of, the clubs reaction to it as previously
mentioned and also the knock on effect it had for us and many other English sides unable to compete in Europe. The main reason I take exception to this word is that I feel that the context has been lost and we are using it as a cheap dig/term of abuse, much the same way many City fans refer to their neighbours as 'Munichs'. Although there is an obvious difference between Munich and Heysel with United being victims of a horrible disaster and the Shite being perpetrators of a dreadful incident, in effect we are using the deaths of many Italian football supporters as a cheap insult. As with the use of the term ‘Munich’s’, calling them ‘murderers’ has callous disregard of the lives of many innocent people. I wonder if younger Everton fans understand the full history behind this or whether they are just copying others and using the word as nothing more than a taunt. If this is the case then all the reasons I mentioned earlier as to why some will justify the use of the term are effectively redundant. In response to our taunting of them a few years ago some of their 'witty' fans made a large banner saying 'Steau Bucharest European Champions 1986'. This was a horrendous use of the Heysel disaster to mock us that as far as I'm aware escaped any media attention or punishment. Is what we are doing by singing and chanting about the same incident any different however? During our mauling at Anfield last season I was just as frustrated as everyone else but couldn't bring myself to join in the chants. I fully understood peoples anger and don't expect people to act completely rationally whilst watching us being embarrassed by the Shite.
A great example of kopite humour. No really.
Also, I have even been guilty of using this term myself on occasions when I was younger so
please pardon my hypocrisy. On reflection though as a group of supporters we can re-evaluate the use of this term and think a little more about the connotations of it. Not only is it disrespectful to the victims but it also lives up to our 'bitter' tag. Kopites I know find it funny when these chants start as they know they are getting to us. Maybe it’s time we moved on from that incident that happened 30 years ago. We do also have our own unresolved issues, such as racism. Even at Anfield whilst chanting 'racist bastards' at them to their Suarez song, I could still hear to the usual casual racism from Everton supporters that I hear at most away games. What I think sets us apart from them though is the way we respond to this. As a club and group of supporters, especially this fanzine, we've acknowledged this issue and worked to eradicate it (a long time before the football League/Premier League ever began their own anti-racism campaigns). It these responses that show we can look inwardly at ourselves and attempt to police our own behaviour. In regards to the murderer chants I feel we should do the same. We have more class about us than to reduce ourselves to their level. The embarrassment factor was exacerbated when the Chelsea v Tottenham semi-final was marred by fans chanting ‘murderers’ during the silence for Hillsborough. This behaviour is disgraceful and I’m sure the large majority of Everton fans condemn this, especially when it is disrespectful to something as close to home as the Hillsborough tragedy. However, when other clubs fans hear us chanting ‘murderers’ at them during derbies, maybe the feel the same about our supporters. When we make the effort we can be very cutting and much cleverer in our taunts and criticisms of them. 'Always the victims, it’s never your fault' was a much more innovative song we used that sums them up much better,they give us enough ammunition for Christ’s sake so we should use it. I am also inspired in writing this by looking at the way my Dad deals with his hatred of them. I'm sure he will never forgive them for Heysel and how it affected us, amongst other things they have done. His response is to
shut them out; he never goes to derbies or watches them on tele. As far as he’s concerned anything we do as a club is our own responsibility and determined by our actions alone. I wouldn't expect most people to follow this example but I just feel it’s a good philosophy to have, especially in terms of focussing inwardly rather than getting bogged down with external factors that have/do affect us. There are some scars that will never heal but I think it’s time we looked at the way we focus our hatred as we don’t always shower ourselves in glory in this aspect. Alan McKeown
How Fuckin’ Much?
No.1 Alberto Aquilani ‐ £125,000 a week.
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the brilliant Saga Noren makes The Bridge BBC4’s best Scandinavian import Group A of Euro 2012 is the worst in living memory Roy Hodgson, in seeking to change the quarter final with his third substitution, accidentally brings on a McDonald’s player escort called Jordan something Pirlo channels Panenka in the penalty shoot out “countdown to kick off” - the only match feature worse than the England band the Ukraine goalkeeper perfects an uncanny Stefan Wessels tribute act in international competition Wayne Rooney continues to look a pale shadow of the (Everton) centre forward who looked unplayable at Euro 2004 Roy Keane experiences the daily trauma of Christine Bleakley, becoming the latest target of Adrian Chiles’ unrequited love the anodyne, matey chumminess of BBC’s coverage degenerates beyond parody, making ITV appear a refreshing alternative despite Roberto Martinez’ shirts and Jamie Carragher’s voice Darron Gibson apparently upsets Giovanni Trapattoni, to the extent that Paul Green (no, me neither) is seen as a better option for the Irish John Heitinga displays his commitment to the Everton cause by scaring off potential
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bidders with a series of ropey performances at the heart of the Dutch back four multiple radio hours and newspaper articles are devoted to handwringing over the national side’s technical ineptitude, all of which will be forgotten once the crash, bang, wallop of the Premier League begins the Beach Boys release an album with a stunning closing three track suite worthy of their late 60’s/early 70’s output the latest season of Mad Men arrives, darker with a superb soundtrack. Poor Laine Harry Redknapp is suddenly as redundant as his car windows on transfer deadline day… … as is ‘King’ Kenny, replaced by Brendan Rodgers, complete with multiple page dossiers, a dislike of Andy Carroll and a track record mixed enough to give hope he may be more Mike Walker than Jose Mourinho. That trip to Garlands – what would Shanks say? the Daily Mirror spends the summer attempting to pimp Leighton Baines to Manchester United for anywhere between £5m and £17m Steven Naismith seeks asylum at Goodison from the mess at Rangers, sounding like the most David Moyes-
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esque player ever Aaron Sorkin’s Newsroom on Sky Atlantic; a bit preachy and too worthy by half, but very watchable all the same a number of new Partridge shows on the same channel. Mid Morning Matters is ace, the others a bit patchy Fearne Cotton shouts incoherently at war veterans during the Thames flotilla Grace Jones hula hoops to the general bemusement of the nation Nike provide a smart away kit and an underwhelming home number with about five minutes thought behind it Luis Suarez uses Uruguayan TV to continue to keep a low profile over having called a fellow professional a negro The addictive horror of Geordie Shore returns, this time in Cancun. Joel looks like every failed Arsenal reserve striker Arsene Wenger’s ever signed (the missus makes me watch it…) Steven Pienaar arrives and Joseph Yobo leaves, both deals having apparently been ‘98% done’ for about two months. Probably more a reflection on me that despite years of decent performances, the first thing that comes to mind with Yobo is THAT goal at Charlton. Tim Cahill departs comparatively quickly, a rare example of a transfer making sense from both a footballing and financial perspective while suiting all parties BBC2’s Line of Duty is a unexpectedly entertaining distraction on a Tuesday night Everton v Galatasaray in Indonesia looks a contender for the most random preseason fixture. Until it’s not. While the information points to the fault for the tournament’s collapse not being with the
'Appy 'Arry teaching his dogs to shit on his own doorstep.
club, the slightly farcical nature of events seems inexplicably unsurprising • local heroes Will.I.Am (Taunton) and Didier Drogba (Swindon) carry the Olympic torch • G4S suffer the biggest PR meltdown since Liverpool FC (2011-12) • the cartoony, stylish Romanzo Criminale on Sky Arts is that rarest of things – a TV spin off from a film that bears comparison with the original • the reaction of the Daily Mail confirms the Olympic opening ceremony can be considered a broad success • Chris Froome becomes British cycling’s Salieri/Andrew Ridgeley • A steady stream of medals gives the majority of the population some degree of pleasure. Morrissey is a notable exception • Roberto Carlos retires, prompting England's most dynamic full back to cause a civil disturbance with his own goalscoring tribute against AEK Athens
Dave Spowart
Really Shitegeist Charged with the Sisyphean Task of Trying to Convince Kopites that the Achievements of the Their Adopted Football Team are NOT Their Achievements
The only EFC column to warmly welcome new special needs, Colin Todd‐lite, willy‐beaked, LFC messiah Brendan Rodgers to the Merseyside fold Like you, I thought that Shitegeist was getting a bit jaded, so I thought I’d soup things up by inviting a celebrity kopite fantasist (tautology alert!) to introduce this part of the mag. First up is Liverpool’s best loved writer (besides Kevin Sammo, Brian Reade and Dave Kirby, that is) and piles sufferer Jimmy McGubbins. Jimmy’s written loads of stuff, including that bit in Brookside where Edna burned the chips. Jimmy also wrote ‘Crackers!’ the brilliant sitcom about Robbie Crackers, a fat criminal psychologist who tries to find out why a skinhead with a poor quality Liverpool accent can’t stop himself from killing Dr Who. 1 An Introduction from a Kopite Fantasist: #1 Award-Winning Writer Jimmy McGubbins “A’right, blue-nose bastids. Award-winnin' writer Jimmy McGubbins here. A lorra peepil are probly wundrin’ why am wri-in forra big piler shite like… (He checks the cover of the magazine we’ve given him) ….ang on; al juss get me glassis. Oh, friggin’ ell, where avva put them?
(He searches round for some minutes, looking under his ‘The Beekils’ (sic) mug and checks behind his giant world map which has ‘L-I-V, ER-P, DOUBLE O-L, Liverpool FC’ crudely felttipped over the British Isles. WSAG points out that his glasses are on his face) “..are right. Yeh – y’wundrin why am wri-in’ for (he squints for what seems like a lifetime) …WHEN SPIES …ARE GAY. Love it! Philby, Burgess and McCloud. Good socialists those lads – all supported the mighty reds as well! L-I-V, E-R…” (WSAG stops him and points out the real title and nature of the magazine. He carries on as if this hasn’t happened) “Yeh – a lorra peepil will be sayin’: “Jimmy, me best mate , why are you writin’ for a big piler shite like tha’? But yer know, I LOVE Ever-in; I always want them t’do well. They’re me second
team. A crackin’ little team. A crackin’ tiny little team. Dixie, Davey Ickson, Danny Blanchflower – ad go an’ see them ev’ry week if the Pool weren’t arrome. Well, once, anyway – when thee were playin’ us, tharriz. A love the Toffo’s –they’re better them than them Mancs – they’re our real rivals. Itsa meeeja conspiracy – did they make Bob Paisley a knight? Did they bollocks. And yet ‘Sir’ Alex hasn’t won half of what Shanks won. No wonder Shanks became an Evertonian towards the end. A football-mad popstar like Paul McCartney – it’s Chris de Burgh!
WSAG: The magazine? JMcG: Ah, yeah. A lorra peepil will be wundrin’ why am wri-in for a blue shite rag – no – offence –a blue shite rag like WKRP – speshlee as you lot said that am always bangin’ on about the same old shite - like me stutter, the Cat-lick brothers batterin’ and bumming everyone , and me problems with me bettin’ and me piles. Well piles are no laughin’ matter, lad – I’ve gorra bag a grapes in me undies the size-a the Greek national debt. They squelch so much when I’m walkin’ around that most peepil think that they’ve re-booted the Abe’s Odyssey franchise. I ‘ave to get me mrs to rub Betnovate on them and when she’s finished, a pull me buttocks apaaart and say (adopts ‘posh’ voice) ”Would madam like dessert?” Been ‘avin alorra problems, lately, though – she says she duzzn’t find me sexshally attractive anymore.
Did yer know that thee baaaarrred Shanks from Melwood and Anfield? It wasn’t Bob or the lads what dun it. They loved ‘im. No, it was them Yanks. And the meeja. The bastids. Shanks was Liverpool through and through. He bled Liverpool. D’yer know if you gorra knife and cut Shanks, d’yer know what wudder ‘appened?
People call me a kopite fantasist and that for ev’ry good thing a say, I spout a load of kopite ‘paaarty line’ bollocks, but that’s er, bollocks.
WSAG: They’d have to have taken him to A and E?
WSAG: Well you say a good thing – admittedly the same thing what our own very brilliant Saint Vespaluus said about five years ago:
JMcG: Yeah. It was a trajjidee worrappened to Shanks. Every bastard day the Melwood security staff would find ‘im shinnin’ up the drainpipe to gerrin to Melwood. He was naked most days, as well.
WSAG: It’s true though – what about your recent interview in The Observer? JMcG: Yer wha’???
“And it was the same Jack Straw who said: ‘You know Scousers – always up to something always up to something.” If you substitute the phrase ‘my Asian constituents” for “Scousers”, the enormity of what Jack Straw said would be apparent”. (JMcG 5/8/12) JMcG: And? WSAG: And nothing – that was your good quote. JMcG: What was me bad one? WSAG: Er, this one:
“Come on, Bill; get down, mate – and that wig’s fooling no one!” August 1974 – an ageing Bill Shankly comes close to entering the Melwood inner sanctuary.
JMcG: Kenny is an AMAZIN’ leader! WSAG: Didn’t his unfathomable defence of a racist prompt the entire football world to lose all respect for him, damage the delicate race relations in Liverpool, ultimately lead to his sacking and negate your point about stereotyping and racism?
Leaving things late, I couldn’t manage to sort out a proper hotel – of which there are very few in Morecambe anyway, so we parked our collective bag in a rather minty guest house which was charging fairly exorbitant prices for its faint whiff of dogs and fags hospitality.
JMcG: I ‘ate the Olympics with all that nationalism and bollocks, but did yer see McCAAAArtney at the opening ceremony “Na, na, na, na, na, na, na – na, na, na. na, hey Jude! I l love The Beekils, me. Good reds fan, Macca!” WSAG: He says an Evertonian. He admitted it last year and was at the ’68 cup final. JMcG: Sold us out, The Beekils, the lot of them. Soon as they earned a birra coin, they all fucked off to London. Did noh-in for this city…..Can I tell you about me new series ‘The Accused’? WSAG: No. 2. Shankly or Bust This was on eBay during the summer. 400 snots last time I looked. Only Zombie Shanks: "If Everton were playing at the bottom of the garden, two words to I'd probably take a big chunk out of describe it: Howard Kendall's leg. They're shite. For the coming to get you, Barbara. Son." Kopite fantasist in your life – especially those who are willing to convince themselves that it doesn’t look like a young, zombified (Sir) Matt Busby: 3. The First Away Game of the Season (Morecambe F.C. Globe Arena, 18.7.12) Don’t know what it was – probably internal rage at Walker, Humphrey, Shearer, Hansen, Lawrenson (obviously ), Jug Ears and the other BBC wankers spoiling the Euros, but I needed some EFC to cleanse my soul. Going to a friendly this early is like finding your Christmas toys in the airing cupboard in October. No matter – we set out from Lime Street around nine o’clock on Saturday morning with the other various meffs and saddoes who also couldn’t wait for some mid-summer Toffees action.
"That's lovely, mate. By the way, what's the veg-a-tarian option?" “I don't put my cock in the scrambed egg."
No matter – we wouldn’t be in there apart from sleep and its threatened ‘vegatarian (sic) option’ breakfast – and so we set off in search of our first pint of the season. Last time we went to Morecambe, me and the lass found the town’s fading shabby splendour rather charming in the late autumn sunshine, but I think it was just the novelty of going somewhere different and we enjoyed a fine weekend of limited fun taking in a Shrimpers/Shrewsbury non-thriller along the way. You can always find something decent in most towns, but Morecambe (second time around) is relentlessly, and soul witheringly, fucking grim. We’ve been to quite a few strange destinations over the past year, taking in a match along with a few beers and a decent Italian restaurant thrown in. We quite like to get a sense of a town’s character and its people, although we usually go in the away end for the game. We usually have a great
"Cup o' cold Bovril, lads?" (Half time refreshments at Chesterfield's Satergate ground November 2003)
time and it’s all good research for my upcoming travel guide ‘Ale and Pizza and Football in the Grim Fucking Shitholes of Britain’.
The tide was out, the sun had gone in and we looked out at some unappealing mudflats and a council built storm barrier
There is only half an Italian restaurant in Morecambe. Last time we went there, we went to a ‘Spanish/Italian’ restaurant that was like something Ray Langton would have taken Deirdre to in 1974. Fucking horrible food, hideous decor and wine bottles wrapped in that baskety thing and with spouts so that knobheads can pour the wine into their mouths from a height of seven feet and cover their shirts and medallions with red battery acid ‘vino’ with a wholesale price of 45p a gallon.
“But when you see this,” he said with almost a tear in his eye, “there’s not many better views in this world.”
We found a decent alehouse and then set off for the ground. Ale and the appearance of the Hogarthian ladies and gentlemen of the Happy Al’s coach had lifted our spirits. One of the ‘Al’s Lads’ asked a pensioner for a go on his mobility scooter and the old gentleman politely told him to “fuck off”. Talking of Al’s Lads, is that film as bad as I think it is? A twitter reply would be long enough. I’ve a feeling that if Twitter imposed a five character limit, it would probably suffice. I might be making a prejudiced value judgement about this film, but I’ve found time and time again that I’M ALWAYS RIGHT. It might be the rip-off floaty Capone ‘Untouchables’ poster; it might be its frankly bollocks, squirm-inducing kopite fantasist tag-line or its cringeworthy subject matter, but I usually find starrring ‘Ralf Little and Ricky Tomlinson’ does it every time for me.
We all thought the same thing: there are. That’s really fucking ugly. And shit. The match itself was great. Splendid support, brilliant weather, nice people. My favourite chant was “4-0, and even Victor scored”, and I’m sure this chant will do his confidence no end of good. There was a great moment near the end when Tony Hibbert back-heeled a pass so that the tubby Morecambe player-manager Jim Bentley could score. Apparently nobody had told Everton goalie Jan Mucha and he saved the shot from the man whose testimonial we were celebrating. Captain for the day Tony had to arrange things so that Bentley could score and the look on Mucha’s face was just priceless. This lad so wanted to keep a clean sheet.
Tony Hibbert: all-round good egg
We had a fairly sensible evening after finding Morecambe’s one classy pub/restaurant (The Palatine, if you’re interested) and walked back to our minty gaff. Breakfast was the highlight of the second day. The veg-a-tarian breakfast was eggs. A number of very rough-looking, ageing lids had dragged their corpse-like asses downstairs, and were keeping their voices to hushed tones because there was ‘a lady’ there, but you could hear all the best comments from the different lids’ tables:
The taxi driver reckoned he was an Evertonian and said Morecambe was ‘a hole’ and he only stayed there for the sake of his kids. After telling us his life story and slagging off his adopted town to people he’d never met in his life – all within 5 minutes – he motioned to the vista to the right of the cab.
“…the copper said that if he ever saw me in Morecambe again, he’d make sure I was put on the sex offender’s register” – (not sure of the context, but I think he’d shat in a hedge) “…and it all kicked off because both of us wanted to sing ‘Song Sung Blue’ on the karaoke” “…what did Wally do with that really fat ugly tart?” (These people were no oil paintings, believe me)
“He shagged her. She’s up there now. It fuckin’ stinks in there” I left my eggs. A cracking day out all told. The lids were planning their trip to Malaga. Wish I was going with them.
there’s none of this persecution of the minorities on Brendan’s watch, nope he’s straight down the local gay club and mixing it with his homies, including the gentleman at the bottom of the pic who’s trying to rival the great man in the penile proboscis stakes.
Brendan - guest DJing at 'Pink' recently
It’ll all end in tears no doubt, but it’ll be fun watching and waiting for the whole thing to implode. One thing is for sure: they’ll beat Everton in both derbies. Rita Webb: How I imagine the lid's one-night stand to look like
4. King Brenny Obviously it’s a bittersweet experience to see King Kenneth getting his P45 from his American masters – it’s always good to see another failure being given the bum’s rush at Grayskull. Let’s face it, though, Ken would have led the mighty, shitey Reds to the Championship, but like all football managers, he just wasn’t given enough time. I’ve just been reading When Saturday Comes’ 2012-13 Season Guide (with the usual excellent ‘Everton’ one from WSAG’s own Mark O’Brien. It was good to see that LFC are back to their natural position as the country’s favourite pariahs. Almost all of the contributors put Liverpool down as the team they actively disliked, fuelled largely by The King’s incredibly stupid support of the racist, and by his idiot players wearing those t-shirts. I was particularly impressed with WBA contributor who said: “Those T-shirts explored new depths of shamelessness, even by Premier League standards”; but best of all was the Wigan Lad who said: “Disliked Liverpool for the sheer crassness they showed over the Suarez affair. Kenny Dalglish showed himself as a clown whose opinion is pretty much worthless.” Anyway, King Brenny (that’s what I’m calling him for now; just grow up all of you who insist on calling him ‘Cock Nose’) is at the helm now, and
5. Saint Etienne at Kazimier (14.5.12) Pop perfection. Sarah as beautiful as ever. Some hits, some new ones. On long enough not to get on my tits. “Bruce did FOUR HOURS!” you might say. I can’t imagine anything being good for four hours, to be honest, but if that’s your bag, good luck to you. The Kazimier is a great venue as well with loads of WSAGs in attendance. Gig of the year for me.
Sarah Cracknell: beautiful. Kopite lid in Bradley 'Plazzy Kopite' Wiggins 'mod' pork pie hat in the background
6. Gameshow Kopite Although I don’t go in for the meffy end of the quiz show spectrum, I’m occasionally asked to try out new gameshows for the BBC when they’re at the development stage. It’s a nice day out and you meet some OK people, and you get your expenses and a few beers courtesy of the licence payer. I’d never actually tried for a Joe Public gameshow – I’ve always wanted to go on ‘Millionaire’, but my great difficulty would always be Chris Tarrant. I’ve
just edited 500 words about my feelings for Tarrant to just one. It’s below the picture Anyway, being at a loose end and keen to see what a daytime quiz looked like, I filled in an application form. The ‘independent production company’ invited me down – and I realised almost immediately: this was a big mistake. This was a wacky characters r us special. I sat in the lobby of one of the Chris Tarrant: cunt studios at Salford’s Media City – very impressive, by the way and well worth a visit, but then it began. Two of the contestants started talking to me – both were youngish women and both spoke in modulated upspeak, that fucking stupid way of talking where everything sounds like a question. Within about 30 seconds the worst of the two (“Where are you from? Liverpool? Amazing!”) started telling me about her experiences on ‘Take Me Out’. I’m sort of aware of this programme via message boards – loads of horrific, shallow people who evidently think they’re good looking compete Bind Date-style for something or other. The return of their dignity, presumably. I also know it from web board listings which start with ‘That Cunt McGuinness’. She told me that she’d almost ‘made the cut’ and then she said ‘Could you imagine me on ‘Take Me Out’? I mean, me!!!” I sort of shrugged – her low IQ (as proved later), her inappropriate décolletage
(her tits were hanging out all over the show) and her mutton dressed as lamb looks marked her down as exactly the sort of mouth breather who’d go on that show. Never forget that that arch iconoclast comedian Ed Byrne went on ‘Blind Date’ – he obviously thought himself gorgeous and wanted to create a media profile – so everything he says or does has always been suspect to me. Worse was to follow. All of the people were quiz meffs – not the strange mafia of weirdoes who go in for Mastermind and Brain of Britain, but quiz junkies who just can’t keep off the telly. People who’ve developed their damaged personas to become ‘characters’ and (mostly) people I’d run a mile from in real life. The only one of the ten I had any time for was a big fat Asian lad from Northampton who seemed as bemused as me and wanted the fairly paltry winning prize money as he’d just been laid off work. My jaw dropped at the awfulness of everything that came out of everyone’s mouth: FAT UNATTRACTIVE YORKSHIRE LASS: “I luv fun, me – I’m a fun, fun girl!” GEORDIE WANKER: “If I won the money, like, I’d qet a decent patio with proper deckin’ and that.” WOMAN WITH TITS HANGING OUT: “….ME – on ‘Take Me Out’??? (Also something about
‘SamCam’ that I didn’t quite catch, but made me physically sick when I realised what she was talking about. STUPID WELL-OFF PENSIONER: “I’d pay for my daughter and son-in-law to come and visit me. I’ve been to Australia three times to see them now.” And you ain’t getting the message, lady? Just by being there, I was guilty by association. You had to say a few words to the camera about yourself and say what you’d do with the money. I felt like Billy Casper at his careers interview and was desperate for it to end. I said I’d either give the money away or blow it which didn’t go down too well but I thought, ‘fuck it, I’m going home in a moment, anyway.’ I wish I had. Because up popped, goofy, late middle-aged twatty, stereotyped Scouser/ stereotyped Kopite gobshite. I’m pretty sure Stan Boardman’s dad fathered a whole generation of these pricks. They really are a genetic sub-species of hyper-active, ‘characters’, with uniform overbites and a chimplike desire to seek some form of acknowledgement for their verbal faeces flinging.
My 'Come Dine With Me' opposition was the stuff of nightmares (L to R: Smello; Small Cocko; Overbite-o1; Overbite-o2)
telling us that although it wasn’t the same City since the takeover, the final match against QPR was the most exciting game he’d ever witnessed. Cue KG: “We were all Man City fans dat day, weren’t we? We were cheering City on in aaaar ale house! Not many Man U fans in Liverpool!” (Ha! Ha! Ha! X 12 million) I think he was doing the usual presumptuous, arrogant kopite fuckstick trick of assuming that all people from Liverpool are kopites. He was certainly being rude in front of our Manchester/Salford hosts.
He was everyone’s mate and no-one’s – laughing at his own jokes, patting people on the back and generally being the sort of own-the-place wanker who’s helped the city’s inahabitants to become the butt of every racist’s jokes since they weren’t allowed to do Irish or Pakistani jokes anymore. We were divided into teams for the audition. Most people were from the North-West and I found myself on the same couch as Kopite Gobshite (KG) and a girl from Neston. The production assistant asked for two team names. Quick as a flash, dickhead came up with ‘The Scousers’. Brilliant. Fat Lad From Northampton (FLFN) saw my look of despair and piped up: “Don’t you think it might be nice to ask Saint if he’s got a team name?” I didn’t. The Scousers it was. FLFN was telling a nice story about how he’d picked Manchester City as his team when they were in the third division just after he’d come to the country (I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt – Northampton Town is much closer), and was
He continued in this chirpy, nauseating manner for the rest of the two hours. Yet again, I was glad that God made me an Evertonian and yet again, I dreamed of emigrating or at least moving cities. But that would mean he could say “The city’s all AAAAARZ!” So I’m not going to. In quizzes, you are always urged to go with your instinct, and mine was to fuck off after about five minutes when there was a window of opportunity. But old as I am, I still live and learn. And while I’m spouting clichés , for every cloud, there’s a silver lining. It’s not every day I get to see Ranvir in the flesh. Cor!!! 7. Gordon West (1943- 2012) Sad to see another of the Championship Team of 1970 (and 1963, of course) leaving us – sorry about this, I’ve been trying to find a euphemism that doesn’t sound too mawkish or kopite – out of respect like. I was too young to see the best of Gordon West, but people I respect tell me he was a great keeper, and he’s the only ‘Everton’ reference in the whole
sides during the war. It’s often very shocking and contains some of the best writing and acting I’ve ever seen. Peter Barkworth, Philip Madoc and others were never better than in this programme.
Monty Python ‘canon’ (check out the ‘Yangtze Kiang’ song. That’ll do me. Would the history of football have been changed if he’d gone to Mexico and played against the Germans instead of Peter Bonetti? I’d like to think so.
It’s an actor spotter’s paradise as well. Dave from ‘Minder’, Brian Cox (not the girly lipped twat from D-Ream), George Sewell and loads more make an appearance. My favourite was playing Half Man Half Biscuit actor references – Brian Cant is in episode one as a non-speaking German soldier; Arthur White (‘The Crazy world of Arthur Brownlow’) is in there too, but best of all is appearance by Nerys Hughes as a French resistance helper. We didn’t spot her at first because she’s blonde, looks vaguely oriental and her acting is more than decent. She’s good enough to get them out for the lads as well, which cheered me up no end, what with the bad weather, an’ all.
I saw Gordon play a few games for Everton, but I particularly remember his swan song at Goodison, during one of those terrible post-championship seasons that Greg Murphy has been chronicling so brilliantly. Everton played an Arsenal team who were neck and neck with the redshite for the 1973 title. It was a miserable overcast day in April and West was only playing because the world’s most expensive goalkeeper (David Lawson!) was injured. To say Arsenal were better than Everton on that day would be one of the great understatements of my life. They battered Everton, but the final 0-0 scoreline was a testament to the genius of Gordon West. Arsenal should have racked up six or seven, but a prematurely aged West put on one last great performance to save an Everton team who had not fully escaped the threat of relegation. R.I.P. Gordon. 8. Your Next Box Set Manhunt. First (and only ever) shown on ITV in 1970. It was occasionally number one in the ratings, is quite brilliant and is one of those programmes that has sank without trace. I was going to take a gamble on it and then bought it after finding a fantastic review of it online. There is hardly any material about this programme on the internet and no dedicated fan sites in the way there seems to be for everything else. Manhunt tells the story of a downed British flying officer and a French resistance leader trying to smuggle a woman out of occupied France. It’s 26 episodes long, is very talky at times and might be difficult for anyone who’s grown up with the breakneck speed editing of today’s TV drama. The programme dismisses many of the ideas people must have had about the conduct of all
Nerys - gets them out for the lad. Unfortunately, its for the very gay Alfred Lynch.
Stephen Lewis also turns up as a rapist, French policeman, but don’t let these fuckers put you off. Good directors have obviously encouraged them to drag out their bits of talent from somewhere and you soon forget about ‘Blakey’, and ‘Sandra’ and ‘Play School’. It’s now my favourite-ever ITV drama series. brilliant, brilliant programme. 9. Spotted in Towyn (10.8.12) From Ricky Tomlinson’s ‘Sunset Boulevard’….. Man in The Morton Public House: “You’re Stan Boardman. You used to play The Empire. You used to be big.” Stan Boardman. “I AM big. It’s The Morton, Towyn, that got small.”
A
10. Pubophonia (Olympics 2012) I remember being a wee boy watching the athletics in the 1976 Olympics on the communal TV in a little hotel in Plymouth. I was a huge athletics fan, but the only medal Britain achieved was Brendan Foster’s solitary medal in the 10000 metres (or’ ten thouZand mee-dazz’ as Brendan referred to it during Mo Farah-Slacks epic win the other night). I was desperate for Britain to win some medals so now that they’ve won loads of them, well… good luck to most of them I say. The twats’ sports’ medals like rowing and showjumping don’t count, remember. They’re not meritocracy sports. As usual, the BBC has done its best to ruin things. Bland, shitty commentators and ‘experts’ with their
self righteous no-smoking adverts from the 80s. I immediately took up smoking. I’ve always disliked Hollins junior even more. He once took Joe Royle task for having a bit of a Scouse accent and that (to Hollins) this was a sign of some sort of linguistic poverty. Royle, a witty, self-educated man who can talk in metaphor with the best of them just gave him a blank look. He should have pinned him to the floor and farted in his mouth. Oh right, pubophonia – still talking with a squeaky voice after your balls are supposed to have dropped. That’s Chris Hollins, that is. 11. And Finally
Chris Hollins - seen here with Gary 'ohh in the morning' Davies
puns, lame gags and they’re wanting to be the stars rather than the sports people themselves really gets on my tits. Clare Balding’s Partridgelike earnestness, Matt Baker’s sheer existence and the “six foot four of nothingness” (stolen from Taylor Parkes) of Jake ‘but he’s a trained journalist, you know’ Humphrey were particular lowlights. And that’s not including Sue ‘Bob Wilson, Anchorman’ Barker. At least I was spared that squeaky no-talent little fuck, Chris Hollins this time. I remember his dad’s
Kopite of the Month (LFC v Gomel, 9.8.12)
Don’t all rush at once, girls: he’s married. To LFC!
Saint Vespaluus Photo Credits 1.Olympic ‘Ring’ pic – EFR 2. Boardman in Towyn – Guy Borrows 3. Europa Kopite – Tony BB Evans Socrates - 60 ciggies a day and loads better than John Hollins' dad. But dead. Because of the 60 ciggies a day.
Mucha Do About Nothing and other thoughts by Eastoe8 So hands up who believed that we’d be starting the season without Baines/Fellaini/Heitinga? Aside from The Daily Mirror and those weird websites like “the transfer tavern,” “caught offside” and “talksport,” nowhere credible has mentioned anything. It’s all so predictable now, our best players get linked elsewhere, supporters panic, the blue union issue a statement, Kenwright gets slated by non-millionaires for being a non-billionaire and fuck all happens, at least until the window is close to shutting and the Sky cranks start hanging round outside football grounds like older lads with cars hang around outside secondary schools. People were even worried when bench sitter and Bond Henchman lookalike, Jan Mucha didn’t play against Morecambe. The players will either stay or go depending on how much they can get. It’s very rare that players stick around for longer than 4 years now but we’ve done well with that recently. Hibbert, Osman, and this fella…..
Tim Cahill It was time. I was lucky enough to be able to see that great side of the mid 80s but also unlucky enough to see how Peter Reid was treated at the end of his Everton career. Reidy didn’t deserve that and neither did Cahill. Loads of stuff has been said about him not being the best on the floor and ‘all he does is score goals,’ but it was the effect on the team around him, his never say die attitude, the respect in which he spoke about the club and the fact that he was someone who kids could genuinely look up to off the pitch. I hope he gets to come back to Goodison one day to have the reception from the crowd he deserves. Not an Everton All Time Legend, but an icon for these times of money ruling football. My Cahill Highlights • • • • •
That overhead kick against Chelsea in the last minute. The goal against the shite in the cup at castle greyskull in ’09. His snide elbow on that lad who invented passing. Him leading the line when we had no fit strikers in the 08/09 season and scoring a great header against Arsenal at home. Him blocking my mate on twitter for giving him shit.
New Signings I watched Hibbert’s testimonial the other day against ‘crack’ Greek side AEK Athens and aside
from the ‘riot’ (if only the London riots last year were like that) for Hibberts goal; I was excited about Steven Naismith’s debut. I nearly rang me Dad to say that we’d found the new Andy Gray (dodgy knees, not the tallest but got a good head on him, ‘looks really Scottish’ and knows where the goal is) but then I remembered Preston. I went to the friendly at Preston in 2000 the year when we signed Gravesen, Nyarko (nice boxies) and Stephen Hughes. We battered a side managed by an even gingerer David Moyes 5 nil that day and I came home bladdered and told me Dad that Stephen Hughes was the new Kevin Sheedy. The only thing he became famous for at Everton was the ‘Stephen Hughes tree’ at Bellefield, (pictured) which has now been supplanted by the ‘Darron Gibson tiles’ at finch farm. So I can confidently say that Steven Naismith is shit, at least until he proves otherwise.
Season Predictions • • • • •
• • • • • • •
Suarez will get at least one player sent off this year and hand in a transfer request at the end of the season. Fellaini will get booked for a crime he didn’t commit. And sent off for one he did. It won’t make a difference. Brendan Rogers will totally reinvent the way football is played in England and Liverpool will play total football. With Jay Spearing. Spearing will appear as an orc in the upcoming Hobbit film. A promoted club will beat one of the big sides before doing a ‘Phil Brown.’ Phil Neville will issue a rallying cry. There’ll be at least ten shocking refereeing performances at Goodison this year. The media will cement their control on football with goal line technology. Alan Nixon will continue to make shit up. That shithouse Cabaye will get sparked by an irate gang of ballboys egged on by Tim Cahill.
Song Sung Blue By Kieron I have just got back from my holidays. As the character in the Fast Show would say, ‘they’re brilliant.’ For those of us lucky to be in paid employment whilst Gideon reeks havoc with people’s livelihoods, the chance to have some time away from work with the people you love and perhaps see a bit of the world is wonderful. As I’ve written before however, Everton are never far away. Like I am sure every reader of this mag, the club is too ingrained in our psyches to be just forgotten about in May and suddenly re-remembered in mid August. And although it’s not my bag, for some people that involves advertising their loyalty via the replica shirt. Now I’m on record regarding past holidays that the recurring sight of rotund fellas in Liverpool shirts in far flung locations has cast a small dark shadow on otherwise enjoyable sojourns so I guess going to Florida for the first time with the family, like a NASA astronaut I strapped myself in for the bumpy ride of
enduring even more of the master race but this time in their groovy new Warrior Sports (no smirking at the back) tops. Bizarrely the opposite was true and by the time I did come across just one at the end of the holiday, I had seen at least seven Evertonians in a range of recent replica tops not just in Theme Parks but in shops and restaurants. They seemed to be everywhere. So what does this snap shot tell us? Are there a disproportionate number of Blues in Orlando? Has King Kenny’s dismal league placing shamed the hordes into putting the jerseys back into the wardrobe or is it conclusive proof that wearing a kit made by Warrior Sports
is an embarrassment too far even for some Reds? What I can say is that the holiday itself was indeed ‘brilliant’ and this strange observation was a nice cherry on the already delicious cake. It probably contributed to me indulging in one of those strange eccentricities that you may or may not recognise that involves singing to myself in unusual, often public places. The singing always involves Everton, it isn’t always that loud but it always gets my wife looking at me like I’m the biggest weirdo she’s ever seen. There’s normally something football related that is the catalyst, like for example being out in Amsterdam when I heard Liverpool had lost to Wigan at home and it provoked a very audible, ‘Hey rock’n’roll, Dalglish’s on the dole!’ whilst people were around us. On holiday however it was merely looking at the menu for the Rose and Crown English ‘pub’ at Disney Epcot and noticing that Bass Bitter was available (also in a special cup for 4 extra dollars) to drink. Without thinking that I was surrounded by tourists and indeed my young impressionable children in one of the many attraction queues, I immediately found myself gently murmuring the immortal ‘Olly Olly with your balls in a trolley and your dick tied up in a string.’ I didn’t get to the ‘bottle of bass’ bit before I was reminded in no uncertain terms where I was and how men in white coats would be coming to take me away ha ha should this behaviour persist. Well either that or I’d be consuming the aforementioned Bass on my Colin. Like a lot of things however, I blame my Dad for this particular Everton eccentricity. Well you’ve got to blame someone haven’t you?! This compulsive behaviour from what I can remember started at Six O’Clock Mass in the early eighties. Being dutiful Catholics we’d be there every week and had to endure an organist (for non-catholics who’ve read a lot of concerning stuff in recent years that’s only the fella who plays the hymns….) who prided himself on playing the oldest, most traditional, most unknown hymns going. Then to our delight he wasn’t there for a few weeks and his replacement did all the modern standards. One week we had ‘Bread of Heaven’ which I had never sang but in seconds recognised it as the Street End fave of
‘Everton, Everton, we’ll support you evermore.’ I glanced at my arl fella next to me who knew what I was thinking and who smirked. That was it. Ever so quietly but just about audibly I inserted the words of our song into the hymn which got him giggling and by the end of it, he had joined in, provoking a stare of disapproval from my Mum. ‘The Lord of the Dance’ the following week was an added bonus with of course ‘run run’ added in although I’m 100% sure that I refrained from inserting the ‘and we’ll fuck you up (or is it all?) whoever you may be’ in a House of God. Natch. Over the years this behaviour of singing to myself has continued. Much of it seems normal to me, i.e. sightings of Sammy Lee or Bryan Robson or Steve McMahon on telly leading to an outbreak of some of our favourite 80’s ditties but I guess I have occasionally asked myself why I do this if there is no-one around? In particular for years I have sung in the shower but must confess that it is very rare that I will belt out one of my favourite pop tunes of yesteryear but almost every time I sing it’s to do with Everton. As an example of this weirdo behaviour I had a supersition from about 2006 that unless I sang a little ditty to the tune of ‘Liverpool Lou’ we would get beat. It worked more often than not…. The shower singing I remember most however was in September 2004 when I woke up from a tequila induced slumber with a mega hangover and thought about that day’s match against Man City. For some reason (probably cos he’d just signed and with Rooney having just left we were short on heroes) I sang the ‘Na Na Na Na’ Paul Rideout song and substituted his name for that of Tim Cahill. It scanned perfectly so when he netted and was sent off that day in Manchester I again gently sang my new song to myself in the away end, too bladdered on the topping up I’d done
with lager to care what people around me thought and made up that some sort of sixth sense had picked this Antipodean match winning newcomer out for my shower singing. And now he’s gone after eight years, so many goals and countless corner flags. I’m sure this WSAG is not short of tributes to Mr Cahill but I will miss him and not just cos I won’t be able to sing that song in the shower anymore! There are loads of things you could say about Tim Cahill as a professional footballer and as an Evertonian. He gave 110% every match, he was brilliant in the air, he scored some critical goals, he never hid even last season when he stunk the gaff out some weeks, he wound opposition players and their fans (especially them) up and he gave us
Kieron (some years ago) singing in the shower. many special moments in one of the most consistent periods league placing wise in our recent history. It won’t seem the same without him but as many of said it was a perfect departure both in terms of timing and to whom he has gone to. Many thanks Tim lad, we will miss you. Now what song can I get ‘Steven Naismith’ into?
WHEN SKIES ARE GREY: An independent Everton fanzine
August 2012
Thanks to everyone who has helped put together the 169th issue of WSAG. The regulars and the newies, we love you all. Thanks to Nick, Thomas & Crystal Print. And most of all thanks to Julie, Nikki and kids. As ever we rely on our great contributors. We’re always on the lookout for more though so if you’ve got something to say, say it in WSAG. Contact us at: WSAG, PO Box 135, 12 Liverpool, L9 7WP Or at whenskiesaregrey@btinternet.com Or @wsagfanzine on Twitter. On Facebook too, just type in When Skies are Grey.
WSAG170 will be out on 29 September (Southampton). Contributions in by two weeks before.
7 Ways to Love We like these. You may do too. only after travelling back to Ibiza in 1989. Tremendous stuff. Find them and download anything you can get your hands on.
Jesus Baby – The Caterpillar Trail: A weird little single from Scotland. Full of top notch pedigree though including Davy Henderson on vocals. Sounds like Lou Reed someone said. Fronting the Beach Boys. Quality.
Dexy’s – One Day I’m Going To Soar: This album hasn’t been far away from the WSAG radiogram all summer. An awe-inspiring return. Love it to bits.
The Tea Street Band: a local pop act who are worthy of your attention. Formed from the ashes of The Maybes but
Saint Etienne: Truly wonderful at the Kazimier in the Spring. Sarah has soundtracked this issue. The latest album ‘Words and Music’ is great but I’m also loving ‘Tales From The Turnpike’, ‘Finisterre’ and Sarah’s solo effort ‘Lipslide’. All wonderful. Oh, you should also try and catch the great little film they’ve just brought out on Heavenly ‘What Have You Done Today, Mervyn Day’.
The Ladykillers: We’ve mentioned these before when they supported Vic Godard last year and enthralled a hall-full of seasoned Subway Sect fans with Magazine’s ‘Shot By Both Sides’. Well, they’ve just supported Vic again and once more they were excellent. Watch them closely.
Aviator – Huxley Pig Part Two: You know Pete Wilkinson? Bass player for Shack and Cast. This is him. As the title suggests, it’s his second solo album and it’s just come out on Viper Records. It’s a smoky, laidback affair full of great songs and its well worth tracking down.
Mercury 13: Another WSAG fave who we’ve mentioned previously but this time we bring to your attention that their debut single is out very shortly. It’s a double A featuring the great ‘Searchlight’ and ‘Again Again Again’. And if that’s not enough a month or so after the single, the album ‘Clubhouse For The Ordinary’ is released. Well worth seeking out and purchasing.
We haven’t the space to provide links to the bands featured but we will put stuff on Twitter and Facebook. Look out for it.
WSA AG170 - Septeember 2012 2 Out fo or the So outhamptton gamee. Full of praise. p
WELCOME to When Skies are Grey, the fanzine of the team who are top of league. Well almost. But you can't help but be impressed with the start we've made. Congratulations to all involved. These are heady times and I'm sure there are loads out there who believe we are maybe on the cusp of something special. Whether it happens will be down to a number of factors but let's just enjoy it and get behind the team. all the best Graham & Phil
There's plenty on our great start in this issue, the other dominating feature is the release of the Hillsborough Report which finally proved to the rest of the country what we've always known. It's sad that it's taken this long and it's only after a Bishop has told them that the snivelling shits in the Government, SYP, The FA and the like have thought it appropriate to apologise. The truth ‐ the only truth ‐ is now out there, justice must surely follow. Our cover features a close up of the Everton scarf on the Hillsborough flag.
The Club and the supporters have received many plaudits for the way we have responded to the release of the Report and the tribute to the Families before the Newcastle game was spot on. We've always stood shoulder to shoulder with the Families and we've long supported the campaign for justice. Brothers and sisters. It's what sets this City apart and long may it continue. That said, roll on 27 October when the new Swansea come for a tonking.
If only he hadn't opened his big stupid gob, it would have a perfect start to the season for the curly‐headed galoot. Who knows what he really said and what he really meant. Whatever it was, his performances on the pitch haven't suffered as Swansea have recently found out. It's welcoming to hear the reception opposing fans are giving him as they all now see him as a genuine threat and a bit of a nasty bastard. All fine with me. It's about time we had players that upset people.
Of course we have got plenty of quality in the team too ‐ a fact everyone seems to be waking up to. Did you hear Lineker and 'Appy 'Arry waxing lyrical about us on Match of the Day? I think we were all glad that the transfer window passed without any of our big names moving on ‐ despite the best efforts of some in the Press. None more so than Leighton Baines who continues to link up with Steven Pienaar to devastating effect. The best left side in the Premier League? You bet.
So what's made the difference this season? Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that David Moyes hasn't got a massive titty lip on him. That's because this year nothing has happened to upset him and consequently the season hasn't started under the black cloud of Moyes' mood. For this, we must thank Bill Kenwright and the Board. There have been many who in the past have been all too ready to criticise, let's hope that they won't be so churlish as to not to offer a word of praise.
LET'S MAKE SOME PLANS When the last mag went to print we were just digesting the news that Jack Rodwell had been sold to Man City for £12 million. The main concern at this point was whether Moyes would see any of the dough, with the conspiracy theorists confidently predicting that Rodwell was this year's Arteta with RBS demanding the poppy to reduce our deficit. For whatever reason, it would seem that that this wasn’t the case, with another 3 (and almost 4) new arrivals before the window closed. First up was the Belgian striker Kevin Mirallas from Olympiakos for £5.3 million who apparently chose the Blues above Arsenal on the basis that he’d get more game time with Everton. Youtube is clearly not the most reliable of media in which to gauge a players worth but I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who gaped at Mirallas’ “showreel”. Like a low countries Ronaldo, Mirallas is filmed running riot with all manner of mad goals and unbelievable skills and to be fair in his early performances he’s proved that there’s substance behind the style. Mirallas is fast, strong, tricky and certainly has an eye for goal. At times he’s been a bit too keen to impress and shot instead of laying off to a better placed team mate. He does still seem a little below the fitness standards that David Moyes demands but it's as much to say that he looks exactly like the type of player that Wenger would buy and that he’s going to be a real crowd pleaser for Everton.
All the rest of the transfer action took place on August 31st with the arrivals of Bryan Oviedo and Matthew Kennedy and the near miss with that Vardis fella from Brugge. There are many reasons why so much action takes place at the end of the window. Managers need to know what their budget is, are any of their own players going to go, thus changing the budget and squad requirements and maybe the availability of their own targets. For all that, both of the deals that were eventually completed were bubbling under for a few days. Everton made their move for the boyband looking Oviedo once his club Copenhagen were turfed out of the Champions league and it's still not totally clear at the time of writing as to whether his visa has been confirmed (more red tape nonsense later). [Well, I hope it has, he came on as a sub at Swansea Smartarse Ed.] Whatever Oviedo is apparently a fast attacking left sided player who will provide much needed cover for Leighton Baines and Stephen Pienaar. Matthew Kennedy meanwhile is a 17 year old winger from Kilmarnock who came for a nominal fee. Kennedy is apparently one of Scotland’s brightest prospects and has made several appearances in the SPL. Obviously he’s seen as one for the future and indeed may well never be seen in the first team. You can understand the concerns of Killies boss Kenny Shields although he did come across as a bit of a tit when complaining about Everton’s “derisory” offer. Kennedy’s own twitter photo’s were touchingly cute as he proudly held up his new kit and an array of Everton DVD’s and quite frankly he looks like an 11 year
old Rooney. Whatever,, we wish him well and maybe we'll see someth hing of him soon. s Whilst all this was going on, Moyes was w apparently trying t to so ort out a de eal for Micha ael Essien whic ch apparently went west When Re eal Madrid came e in late doo ors. As you'd pe erhaps expect. But for an hour or so on the nightt, it was gen nuinely excitting. Come on, o admit it, even though you y profess to t hate it, you were there glued g to Sky ySportsNews s.
KO OPITTE OF O THE M MONTTH
Another opttion was Ste ephen Nzonz zi who electted to join Stokes collectio on of grock ks. Finally we w settled on the Belgian fella (ca an’t be arsed googling him m, I’m at work) w who was w eventua ally knocked ba ack by FIFA A because Bruges we ere apparently a mere four minutes late with their paperwork. As more than t one person has s noted, one wonders if FIFA F would’v ve been so rigid r with their interpretatio on of the rules if one of the t Champions League cash h cows had been b involved. For all that,, I refuse to o get annoy yed at missing out on some eone who I’d d never hearrd of. It’s a sham me we didn n’t get cover for centtre midfield, particularly as a by the law of so od, Gibson’s no ow injured. It could be e that by the time you re ead this a free agent stop gap has h come in, with w ex Villa and We est Ham man Thomas Hitz zleberger [H Have you lo ooked up th he spelling off that, Red dmond? - Cantbearse ed Ed.] appare ently being considered. c On the debiit side we’ve e seen two young playe ers go out on loan. Jake Bidwell has returned to Brentford fo or a month whilst Ross s Barkley has h gone to Sheffield S W Wednesday o on a similar arrangemen nt. Bidwell sho ows some promise p but you have to wonder whe ere he is in n the peckin ng order wh hat with the sig gning of Bry yan and the e recent fairly impressive albeit fleetin ng debut of Luke Garbu utt against Orie ent. There appea ars to be so ome controv versy in som me quarte ers around the Barkley B mov ve, but in i truth he e’s clearly y not ready for th he first tea am yet. A couple of promising displa ays agains st QPR and Unitted Sheffield early last season
“You’d d think dem Yanks’d d put enough u urinals in the Kop fo or all of …. us… thanks to th he Saint
were followed d by a length hy injury and a string of o brrief, ineffecttive cameos s that showed just how w much m he’s gott to learn. Hopefully a short s spell a at Hillsborou ugh - where e I'm m sure Daviid Jones willl have our best b interests s in n mind - will give him a run of gam mes and the e co onfidence to o push for a first tea am place at Goodison and d to demon nstrate the potential he e un ndoubtedly has. h Alll in all th hen, by Ev verton’s sta andards the e trransfer windo ow of 2012 h has been a success. s
IS VIC THERE? Isn’t it about time some people started cutting a bit of slack? Since his introduction into the team as an 18 year old in 2006 Big Vic has gone from a promising starlet to one of the most vilified players I can remember in 40 years as a match going fan. To be fair at times he’s definitely not helped himself but there’s a significant minority who seem almost to be willing him to fail. It's all a far cry from those halcyon days of 200708 when Anichebe scared the shit out of a variety of European teams with a string of barnstorming performances during the Toffees run to the last 16. Who could forget him bullying his way to a penalty and goal on that fantastic night in Nuremburg. Since then he suffered a long run of injuries which included a year out after that horror tackle by that kopite shithouse Nolan. Just before, he’d incurred the wrath of David Moyes by throwing a titty lip after being denied a loan move to Hull and things didn’t improve when the daily Mail reported that he turned down a £30K a week offer during contract discussions. Anichebe was booed onto the pitch during his next game against Wigan in December 2010 and although both he and the club later rubbished the Story it appears that some mud stuck. Its undeniable that for a long time Victor Anichebe looked slow and lazy and over a period of time lost a lot of confidence, but he definitely got no help from the support. Part of the problem was possibly his perceived
onfield demeanour with many fans complaining that all he did was throw himself on the floor and moan at the ref. Whatever for the past 12 months there has been a marked improvement in Victor’s application and form and despite only starting the odd game he’s been a regular goal scorer. Still though there’s plenty who seem almost pathological in their hatred of Big Vic. There’s even been plums moaning that he doesn’t celebrate enough when he scores. There’s always been extra pressure on local lads who are in the first team. Think of the abuse Osman and Hibbert sometimes get and compare it to the leeway Bilyetidinov was given. Anichebe definitely suffers in this respect. At the end of the day though the best way Big Vic can silence his critics is by putting himself about and continuing to hit the mark. There does seem to be a thawing among some fans and I for one was absolutely made up when he drilled in against Newcastle. Victor Anichebe is a big strong unit who combines pace and power with a sharp eye for goal. Fully fit and focused he can be a real asset for Everton. Lets hope he can keep it up. 5 Big Vic moments 1 His debut goal v West Brom on Duncan’s farewell 2 Waltzing round the Metalist defence to send the Blues into the group stages 3 His complete and utter twatting of the Nuremburg defence 4 A blammer against Birmingham down there 5 His cathartic celebration after the Newcastle goal.
"Hey there Mister Blue…" Some Moores or less of modern Evertonia: No. 9 (of 14-ish) - Can You Phil the Love Tonight? A wry smile notes that in the early 1980s Britain's media seamlessly moved from covering "civil unrest" (riots), to a sustained period of jingo-reporting amid "seas" of Union Jacks (they were apparently "reclaimed" in the early 80s) being waved at every turn (Falklands), and it wasn’t too long before Ceefax and Teletext were recounting details of the first in an occasional 80s series of crowd-control masterclasses given by South Yorkshire Police (Orgreave), all against a backdrop of "economic unrest". Familiar? Truly, the flavour of headlines from summer 2011 to now has lent a feeling of being involved in some kind of weird, 80s re-hash and Ashes to Ashes style time warp (concerning the reappraisal of a certain northern constabulary’s rep, not before time). Anyway, bright side - all these recent echoes of the 80s might mean Everton are about to unleash a sudden trophy fest. Well, a certain P. D. Carter's still around the club, with a lofty title to boot. Fire up the Daimler, Phil. A courtesy recap due, I reckon. As said earlier in this series (anno, won't be long now), there's no escaping that the three most controversial Everton chairmen of the past 50 years have also been among our most “successful”. For out of the 12 different reigns as Everton supremo since 1960 (Moores, Hughes, Sharp, Watts, Moores, Waterworth, Scott, Carter, Marsh, Johnson, Carter and Kenwright) five of them "won" things (Moores-Mk1, Hughes, Sharp, Carter-Mk1 and Johnson). So, if footy is ultimately about winning pots then it's obviously churlish to suggest that figures like Moores, Carter and Johnson were controversial. Yeah? Especially as, between em, they accounted for three titles, two FA Cups and a Cup Winners' Cup - six of the only 15 pots we've ever won. Consider Johnson, though. Despite winning the FA Cup under him, it would be lowest order revisionism (though I'm sure he'd have a go) to suggest that his tenure wasn't edgy. Therein, though, lay part of the reason for starting this series last season: because really it's only our spells under Johnson, and then latterly Kenwright, which have been labelled "controversial" in the last half century. Regardless of your personal opinions on both (and there are many now trotting out a revised line that PJ might have had a rough deal and maybe was on the right lines after all - fair dos if that's your take; and let's face it, the pro- and anti-Kenwright camps undoubtedly create the biggest faultline among Evertonia right now), it's hardly being overly subjective to suggest that their respective spells in the big seat were, and so far have been, "controversial". What about Moores and Carter, though? Because you really do have to scratch beneath the club histories to find any bum notes attributed to either. The potted recollect is generally: "Moores gave us loads of coin to help win things and then rebuilt Goodison; then Carter oversaw our most successful era ever." Full stop. All hail. So, without going too deeply into the realm of logical fallacies (cue gag for any Everton logicians out there: post Heysel ergo propter hoc!
No?), I set about avoiding the false dichotomies that always seemed to surround Moores or Carter debates. For as much as it's true that we've a bit to be grateful to both men for, their respective records shouldn't be free from scrutiny - which seems to have been the case too long - especially as, between them, they rackedup over two decades' worth of seasons as chairmen. Similarly, you can't weigh their undoubted, too often unchronicled, contributions to Everton’s malaise in recent decades without pointing out the obvious: there's only ever been three Everton "glory" spells (the late 20s-early30s [conveniently leaving the relegation bit aside], the 60s, and the mid-80s) and Moores-nCarter’s roles in two of those eras are assured. • The other reason for this series was to complement the submissions I sent from 2009 to 2010 about growing up as a Blue and witnessing our on-pitch progress, or otherwise, from the late, much lauded, 1960s, through the barren 1970s, and through to the heady 1980s before abruptly stopping at the point at which, after 1987, the rot (apparently) set-in. This B-side, looking at the off-pitch developments (or not) of the club over my lifetime, has been part motivated by a desire to test my own staringout-of-the-bus-window theories about why Everton have stagnated, and also to maybe provide any Blue who's ever asked "how did we get into this mess?" (that's every single Evertonian over the age of 10 basically) with some pointers - not judgments - that I knew had never been considered. Hopefully I’ve done some of that. But I also started it because I had an instinct that in the two probable seasons it would take to churn it out, the "definitive" development, THE singular event, or end point whether positive or negative - to all of Everton’s ongoing woes would occur sometime before the end of 2012/13. Take your pick from: "the Arabs" might buy us and we might "do a City"; or "the Chinese or Indians or Yanks" might buy us and we might do a "City-lite"; or we go into
administration but rec cover; or we w might go completely bust; or we might fin nally come up trumps on the trophy front unde er Moyes and stick two fin ngers up to the Skyworld for having done it with h 11 hands tied behind our back; or we finally call c time on Goodison after landing a sound pack kage deal, with w the right terms and sensible loc cation, which h won't crip pple us for 50 years, and announce a th hat we're gonna do-one to another stad dium on a specific near--term date; or we announc ce that we're e finally gon nna accept our o future is at Goodison and a stick a second s tier on o the Park End d (in its 19th season thiis year, folks s!) and just gett on with it; or just get relegated and commence a Leedsfores st Wednesda ay type slum mp. Something from the ab bove list of pain and joy on, I reckoned. But, as is would surely come soo looking likelly, none see ems a cleverr bet any tim me soon (let's hope h not on certain fron nts) and we''re just as like ely to carry on carrying g on and, er, e well, just "B Being Everto on" (call Ch hannel 5!) - a club variou usly describ bed as eith her "punching above its weight" w or "a " great tra aditional clu ub, with a home e-spun set-u up and prop per ground" or "a sleeping giant" or "a " fallen gia ant which ju ust can't compe ete in the mo odern era un nless….(repe eat to fade)". Ultimately, however its weighe ed, Everton have drifted. And many y may be to blame. And perhaps two o of them may m be Moorres and Carterr? So, on n the bas sis that the undoubtedly y positive as spects of th heir respective roles in the e Everton story s are well w chronicled elsewhere (cf. virtually every club c history y), here's some e salt for the sugar bowl. • Everton chairman Philip Cartter: 1978-9 91 (part three e: 1983-91 1). I reckon if you asked Phil to nam me the mostt pivotal yea ars in his liffe, 1983 would d rank. It was w a gate eway for him m. Slammed shut behin nd, foreve er, was the opportunity to land the e prize he’d striven for all his life. But, suddenly,, open befo ore him lay a r to the top t in at lea ast one of the chance to rise fields he’d been noted for. And fo or that second stab at pers sonal glory he h has one man m to than nk: Howard Ken ndall. And perhaps p Ken ndall has one man to than nk for his sttill being able, in 1983, to be in a po osition to have h unwittingly assisted Carter’s sec cond stab at a a high profile p caree er: John Moore es. As recou unted previo ously, Moore es’ seemingly incurable ego was still menacing m w well into his nintth decade, and a his decis sion to reclaim Littlewoods’’ chairmansh hip from his son, Peter, in 1980, at th he age of 84, 8 would probably p have been dismis ssed as a sc cript-too-farrcical even for f “Are You Be eing Served? ?” Still, returrn he did an nd, predictably, in classic “no “ fool like e an old foo ol” style, it was a disasterr. But in returning to his h throne at su uch a barking g old age, itt lent a degrree of ambiguitty to the perceived reputation of Carter. Was it more a case of Moores’ ego running riott than verd dict on Cartter’s busine ess acumen? Phil P was prrobably grateful for the
enefit of the doubt. Ho owever, were he to be e be pa assed over again, surely once Moores s’ oc ctogenarian lunacy inevitably becam me apparent, th hen it really y would hav ve spelt Phiil’s end. It’s s ex xactly what happened. • Moores rea alised he cou uld just abo out walk, let alone steer th he company. Instead off passing the e ba aton to Carrter, he app pointed a geezer, g John n Clement, from m Unigate - a complete outsider o - as s ch hairman. Ca arter was sweetened by b a handily y tim med CBE and then had d to acceptt working as s managing m dirrector (he was never Littlewoods s‘ CEO) under Clement. This was late 1982 into o ea arly 1983. It meant tha at whilst Eve erton (whom m Ca arter had chaired c sinc ce 1978, th hanks to his s Littlewoods connection c tto Moores...oh and his s bu usiness sma arts, of cou urse!) were starting to o crreak and expose the co omplacency that had set in n at the club b since 1970, its chairm man finished d th he calendar year y involve ed in a last ditch d attempt to o salvage glo ory in his first, chosen, career. The e la ast thing he needed was an Everto on crisis. But on ne unfolded d. And it s seemed to be reaching g ex xplosion po oint right a at the end d of 1983. Co oincidentally y, that’s exa actly when the t aforesaid d Jo ohn Clement appointed d one Desm mond Pitcher (y yet another “Littlewoody “ y” who would d seamlessly y melt m into Eve erton’s boarrdroom) to serve under hiim. Hang on n, though, w wasn’t that Phil Carter’s s jo ob? Well, no ot for the ffirst time, I’ll leave the e ec conomic prose of John M Moores‘ officiial biography y to o lay down some s lines to read betw ween. “At the e en nd of 1983, John Cleme ent brought in Desmond d Piitcher, a Liv verpool-born n man and a hightech h co ommunicatio ons expert from Ples ssey. Philip p Ca arter resign ned and in 1984 Desm mond Pitcher to ook over as manag ging directo or. At his s su uggestion, th he post was s retitled chiief executive e an nd John endorsed e h his position n as chief ex xecutive.” Ooof! O And what was Chief Des s’ ve erdict on the e company Carter had been MD off, an nd had serve ed as a board member for near two o de ecades? App parently it wa as suffering from a “lack k off knowledge e of mode ern busines ss practice". Ooof-ooof! Within W 18 months, Pitcher (who o se erved Littlew woods for a decade, and effectively y re escued it from disaster a and ensured it continued d
with a £2 billion (sic) turnover into the 90s) had put 1+1 together and sussed that a company which boasted mail order catalogues and high street stores really should be able to utilise both channels to create the type of obvious enterprise that Argos had started 12 years earlier: “catalogue stores” (Index). But Phil was getting round to it. Obviously. • So, having “quit”, ahem, Littlewoods, Carter’s diary was suddenly free, just in time to devote full attention to the inevitable “Everton 1984” meltdown show, the promo trailers for which were broadcast on Match of the Day on December 31st 1983, as we stunk to a 0.0 draw and received a boo-fest off the park from most of the 13,569 gate. But whaddya know? Any remedial work Carter must have feared he’d have cut out for him was quickly ditched. Because within seven weeks we’d secured a first trip to Wembley in seven years. Within five months we’d broken our 14-year trophy famine (a drought then). The rest is history and, by 1987, Carter’s reputation - which he still holds as Everton’s “most successful chairman” was secured. The official line about “late 1983 and all that” was that it never crossed Carter’s mind to sack Kendall. Probably true! Because his head was likely elsewhere all through 1983 and until New Year 1984 - and then, as quick as he could spit the words “bloody Pitcher”, the crisis was over. Everton were ace. Is that an ultra cynical take? Possibly. Because maybe Carter was indeed giving Everton his full attention in late 1983 despite his anxieties elsewhere - and possibly had done so for the whole five years that he’d been chairman by then - and so deserves credit for standing behind his on-therack manager. For it has to be said that he hadn’t exactly dithered at the end of 1980/81 when he made the right, though sad, decision to sack the broken shell of Gordon Lee. But, at the very least, the chronology of unfolding events in Carter’s non-Everton life in late 83 gives food for thought about how things panned for the club and Kendall back then. • So will the real Phil Carter please stand up? Was he: a) a careerist of the highest order; short on sharp business acumen but smart enough to know who to brown nose (e.g. John Moores and Thatcher [cf. the previous series concerning his craven cave-in, despite earlier promises, not to fight the Heysel ban - the chief supporter of which was that handbagged cow]) and dead keen to collect passing Debretts-style titles of personal acclaim (e.g. “managing director” [later restated on CVs as “CEO”], “chairman” of EFC, a CBE, a knighthood, “president” of the Football League [and then “chairman” of its, er, “TV Committee”], then “chairman” of EFC again, then finally “life president” of EFC - and probably loads of tennis club and rotary type stuff in between); with a
sole strategy based on “take the easy path” in the hope that the great corporate machines he found himself in charge of (Littlewoods and Everton) would just ticking over and occasionally benefit from (I can’t believe I’m gonna type this) “low hanging fruit” (ok, “easy wins” then, no, that’s just as bad, well okay, what about “business stuff that even a kid could suss” - e.g. shirt sponsorship and the obvious probability that footy could make more money from TV especially as it had been three years since ITV and the Beeb had started broadcasting live matches and it didn’t exactly take a genius to work out it was time to up the ante, especially as King Rupert was agitating about “unfair telly” from the mid-80s onwards)? *inhales* Or was he: b) a visionary (e.g. identifying that footy could screw more from telly - go suss); who was never slow to make a key decision (e.g. to plant the name of a tinned spam gaff on our shirts and keep it there for six years; and sacking Gordon Lee; then hiring Kendall, then hiring Harvey, then sacking Harvey, then rehiring Kendall and Harvey); a true business builder who, after 20 years on the Littlewoods board and the longest chairmanship in Everton history, used those tenures to build on the earlier century foundational successes of both organisations in order to equip them to meet the challenges of the later century and beyond? • I’ll leave aside the earlier examined episodes concerning Carter’s (non)handling of Heysel, the lucrative bagging of Hafnia, and his pivotal role in screwing-up our putative appointment of Bobby Robson in early 1977 (when he wasn’t even chairman), and all the other (out of context, naturally) examples hinted at above - all of which possess a vital seed of ambiguity to cloud whether he really was a sharp-shooter or just a “do the minimum” kinda guy. Instead, it may be worth considering, particularly now, one of the most obvious, but relatively un-
commented on, symbols of Everton’s Carterian years: the pig-ugly, blue breeze-blocked monstrosity of a wall which, unbelievably, was ultimately allowed to stand and disfigure the Park End for a total of 15 years, 12 of which were under the chairmanship of Carter who ordered it to be built. I say “particularly now” because, at the time of writing, English footy is into its eighth day of the “Post Hillsborough Cover-Up and eyes-wide-open” era; now that all the filth, deceit, laziness and general contempt for fans that had prevailed for years prior to that one disastrously symbolic day when all the aggregated short-cuts of generations of so-called football executives were brutally exposed (what did Len Shackleton write in his autobiography chapter titled “The Average Director’s Knowledge of Football”? Zip - just a famously blank page). It was just a question of which set of fans would be in the firing line, where and when before people cried “enough”. It just happened to be Hillsborough, incredibly as late as 1989 (43 years after the alarm bells first rang at Bolton, 18 years after they were re-sounded at Ibrox, and four years after they rang again at Bradford and Heysel) and it was Liverpool that stood for it (literally). There were scores of near misses beforehand, though, all over the country. Some were reported. Some just dissolved into terrace folklore. Like Goodison 79? • As covered previously, it was a little reported reality that in the period 1977/1978 (roughly around the time Carter became chairman) Goodison - despite our board being warned since 1975 (the year Carter became a director) - was one of the stadiums hit hardest by the Government’s “Safety at Sports Grounds” (SSG) guidelines, which followed in the prolonged wake and public hand-wringing after the 1971 Ibrox
disaster (66 deaths). Our capacity at one stage had been temporarily reduced to circa 38,000 and then it incrementally rose again over the next 12 months, chiefly after remedial work was undertaken in the Bullens (exits) and the Enclosure (barriers). By the “Andy King derby” in October 1978 it was back to 53,000. The following April, Goodison touched for its ninth FA Cup semi final, its first in seven years (since Arsenal v Stoke, 1972) as 53,069 attended a replayed love-in between Liverpool and Manchester United on April 4th. United had the Park End, into which Jimmy Greenhoff headed their winner. It was still a full - wooden at the rear - terrace. There were some “concerned” reports of disorder in the Park End that night. Had Liverpool fans infiltrated it? Or were United heads having a pop amongst themselves? Didn’t matter, because it was soon glossed over. In public, that is. But oddly, by the time Everton next played at home, six days later (Coventry), there were sections at the rear of the Park End terrace sealed off by the most resilient barrier known to man: orange tape. It stayed like that for the remaining three “Brian Kidd” games. Then, in the last prog of the season (WBA) came a four paragraph announcement headlined “Park End Improvements”. Apparently the “final phase” of the aforementioned realignment of Goodison to SSG standards hadn’t yet taken place (despite us being told that they were completed in 1978 hence the restoration of the 53,000 capacity). Not to worry, though, because they would be undertaken during the close season. This would involve, quote, “closing off the area of timber terracing at the rear of the Park End”. That’s all it said about that. The next three paragraphs constituted some of the most almighty spin EFC has ever spun. Because apparently all this was being done to assist, quote, “our loyal Park End fans” (arf!). For the front of the terrace would now be remodelled with its infamous (two-thirds, one third) barrier split and a “police walk-way” would also be enabled (“Blackbeard, you mince!”) and it would mean that ground season tickets could be reintroduced there (with only “rare” occasions [i.e. United and Liverpool] when our “loyal” crew would be “disturbed”). Eye-popping! Amazing what hidden benefits a few breeze blocks painted royal blue could yield (and don’t forget the advertising hoarding potential!). We should have thought of it years before. Or was it more the case that the rear terrace of the 1906 construction was
getting too “bouncy” for comfort? And did Everton dodge a major one that night when the United fans in the Park End did what comes naturally when your striker slots under your beak, with just a few minutes left, to clinch a cup final place at the expense of Liverpool? I mean it’s not like they would have gone wild or anything, and unwittingly exposed that the Park End terrace was about to go south. Oh no. The club had it all under control. They knew it still had enough to withstand, say, the mayhem of an April FA Cup semi final. But, for “safety’s sake”, they judged it might be too much of a stretch to expect it to last until August. And of course wood had no place in modern stadia like Goodison. Oh hang on... • A cynic, then, might suggest that certain senior members of the club in 1979 might have taken a lazy view that Goodison, especially now boasting its new Park End “improvements”, was still arguably regarded as the premier stadium outside of Wembley, being equipped with better seating facilities than grounds like Old Trafford despite the larger capacity. So what needed to be done, really? The FA had deemed it suitable for an FA Cup semi final (as we know, there was no finer testimony to a ground’s pedigree back then), and indeed would do so again in 1985 and it was really only geography that prevented Goodison getting more nods than it did (and, sneer, Anfield hadn’t been chosen since the 1920s). Plus Goodison was the last ground to stage an England international outside of Wembley (1973). It was a default ground of choice (twice) for naughty FA Cup ties that had to be settled on neutral territory (Newcastle v Forest x 2 in 1974). And, of course, it had only been 13 years since it had hosted a World Cup semi. Goodison in 1979, then? State-of-the-art, o’ course! Resplendent with its three tier super
structure that was still less than a decade old (despite it being done on the cheap and being riddled with thousands of obstructed view seats) it would be fit for decades. What more did Carter need to do? His mentor, John Moores, had signalled in 1972 that nothing more would happen to the ground - despite earlier assurances that the Goodison Road “revamp” was just the first part of an ongoing upgrade - and there was no reason for Phil to doubt the old fella’s wisdom there. So Carter could be justified, then, in just keeping tight to the instructions of his master (who still had another 14 years left to keep the club in his death grip). Tick. Over. Do the minimum. Hard work done. I suppose we should be grateful, though, to Carter. Because in the summer of 1987 - nine years after becoming chairman he finally got round to sticking a roof on the Street End (no more fitting celebration to mark the club’s ninth title) and also built a new “Everton Football Club” perimeter wall on Walton Lane (yeah, the one that was reduced to rubble a few years back and then had to be, er, rebuilt). • So with the ground sorted, and with lucrative spam shirt-sponsorship in the bag, and Kendall working miracles, and a Monday-to-Friday diary schedule suddenly free from 1984, how else should Phil have filled his time? By seizing the moment to ensure Everton became a major force for years to come? Nah, that was a given, surely? Or, was it a chance to right some wrongs on the personal kudos front and (having missed a lifetime’s ambition to land the big skipper’s job at Littlewoods) work one’s way to the top of the English football tree? And, in so doing, use one’s razor sharp acumen to carve up the league system and so ensure that Everton, one of the “Big Five” benefited for decades to come? Forza Phil! Next time: Life on Marsh GREG MURPHY
transpired. David Cameron, who this week has received plaudits for his heartfelt statement and apologies on Wednesday, showed his ignorance last year when he compared the families quest for closure as, ‘a blind man in a dark room searching for a black cat that isn’t there’, and in my opinion this statement is probably closer to what he feels than his apology on Wednesday. The former Culture Secretary and now Health Secretary Jeremy Hunt commented in June 2010, ‘As a minister I was incredibly encouraged by the example set by the England fans. I mean not a single arrest for a football-related offence and the terrible problems that we had in Heysel and Hillsborough in the Eighties seem now to be behind us.’ This comment mirrors the opinions of the government in 1989 when Tory MP Irvine Patnick, who was ultimately responsible for the shocking headline printed by The Sun, and that of Thatcher’s former Press Aide Bernard Ingham, who when the Prime Minister visited Hillsborough in the days after told Thatcher that the disaster was caused by ‘tankedup yobs’.
UP WITH PEOPLE by John Wharton On Wednesday September 12th the Hillsborough Independent Panel released the findings of their investigation into the disaster. What they released surprised me, as I expected they would find nothing of much note and perhaps offer only a token appeasement to the victim’s families. As has been widely reported, the panel discovered what I think many in the city already knew. I was ten years old when the tragedy occurred and vividly remember that as the tragedy unfolded I was playing football in a sports hall. Being so young I don’t think I quite took in the magnitude of what was happening. I remember the football manager telling us that one of the lads in the team was at the game, and the training was abandoned. I don’t remember the rest of the day at all; it’s just a massive blank. The following day was the end of season party for the junior team I played for and we still hadn’t heard anything about the lad who went to the game. I remember walking down Thirlmere Road to the Royal Standard pub and feeling this strangely oppressive and crushing atmosphere - even to this day I can’t ever remember feeling such a horrible atmosphere. When we arrived at the pub we found out that our mate had been in contact and he was home, but he wouldn’t be attending the party as he was obviously too upset. I remember being angry at the headline in that rag a few days after and our headmistress asked us all to write something expressing how we felt. I wish I could read what I and others had written that day as it would be interesting to see what pupils in a school less than ten minutes from Anfield had felt. One day I remember my mum and nan picking me up from school to take me to Anfield where we laid flowers and I placed my 1985 European Cup Winners Cup Final scarf down on the pitch. I was shocked and moved by the amount of flowers, shirts and scarves that had been laid down in memory of the victims. Until March of this year I’d spent five years living in Derby and, at first, I was amazed by what people thought of the disaster. Many believed Liverpool fans were mainly to blame for the disaster and there was a general ignorance of the real causes of the tragedy. Indeed, many of our senior public figures were ignorant of what had actually
One of the more shocking aspects of the report was that all the victims had their blood tested for alcohol levels - this included the children that died. Survivors were also asked about how much
alcohol they had consumed during the day. The behaviour of the police from day one up until the release of the findings has been nothing short of criminal and hopefully charges will be brought against those responsible. I think most people in this city were aware that there was a cover-up but, like me, they would have been shocked by how deep the conspiracy went as police, ambulance service and government were all implicated by the report. The recent comments by West Yorkshire Police Chief Constable Norman Bettison also show that, despite the chastisement, the police still show nothing but disdain for the victims and their families. Bettison was involved in the first investigation by West Yorkshire Police that failed to uncover any evidence of wrongdoing and, therefore, this potentially implicates him in the cover up. Most people would lie low and keep their head below the parapet but not old Norman - his arrogance allowed him to still apportion blame to Liverpool fans the day after the report. Then the following day he dismissed the families’ comments that he should be sacked from his job and stripped of his knighthood. It was only later that same day that he managed to make a token apology. This leads on to my next point and the apologies which have been made recently. As mentioned above, David Cameron apologised for government involvement in the tragedy and its subsequent cover up. Sheffield Wednesday apologised for their part in the disaster, as did Sheffield City Council. The FA apologised for using a stadium that didn’t hold the appropriate safety certificate. The Sun apologised the following day with a headline titled ‘The Real Truth’, and Kelvin McKenzie gave a crassly-timed apology just six years after vowing never to apologise for his headline. The problem with these apologies are that they were only made after all involved had been found out and it seems to me they were only apologising for being caught out, rather than for all the hurt they had caused. Throughout all this the families have maintained their dignity and the respect that I have for them cannot be measured, they have endured 23 years of seeing their loved ones memories and reputations being tarnished by unfounded allegations, and a government cover up that has stopped them from moving on and beginning the mourning process properly. Hopefully now the panel’s findings have been made public a full inquiry will be ordered by the Attorney General, criminal charges will be brought against those responsible, and the original inquiries verdict of accidental death will be reversed.
Justice for our brothers We don’t care what the red side say, was silenced on that April day. For what once was a fierce rivalry, became one city under scrutiny. A red a blue, the non football fan too, stood side by side stuck like glue. For this was more than football, it was life, and the authorities really knew how to stick that knife. What they didn’t bank on was our tenacity and how our relationship ran so deeply. Divided by our passion for colour, but when times are hard we come together. Football didn’t matter on that fateful day, just the love of a city that would eventually outweigh The lies and deceit they tried to hide, but the tears of the families would never be dried We are the blues and we are their rival, but that all stopped one day in April. For this is a city with a big heart, 'you’ll never walk alone' to those that did depart. JFT96…….Nil Satis Nisi Optimum……You’ll Never Walk Alone BY MICHAEL WAFER
Start! (or Things are achieved when they are well begun. The perfect archer calls the deer his own while yet the shaft is whistling) Bloody hell! I am sure no-one saw that coming in the first game of the season. Admittedly, United are slow starters to the season but we normally always gazump them on that front, so to walk away with a deserved victory was exactly the start the season required. Following on from our beating of the second best team in the league, we battered Aston Villa away with Felli getting his second of the season, Pienaar scoring a beauty and Jelavic, who could be key to our season thankfully opening his account early. Against Orient in the Whateveritscalledthesedays Cup we fielded a second string team, yes we now have a second string, and comprehensively won with two goals from new boy Mirallas, and one each for Gueye, Ossie and the much maligned Big Vic. All was going swimmingly until the wheels came off at West Brom, which in some respects at least brought some of the more optimistic fans back down to earth. The injury to Gibson was no doubt partly instrumental in our downfall because he has looked like the lynchpin around which everything revolves thus far. Finally, the 2-2 draw against Newcastle was the result of two horrific linesman decisions that cost us three points. Had we won that game as we should have, we would be sitting in second place instead of seventh, which is still only three points behind leaders Chelsea and also five points clear of the comedy greats across the park.
But I’m Different Now Nearly all the players who have taken to the filed have impressed thus far, although Tim Howard has had a particularly ropey start and it seems that he is not too keen on the physical aspect of the game, and no doubt that will be targeted by future opposition sides. I would also like to draw attention to the aforementioned Victor Anichebe. Last season, Victor made 7 starts and 9 substitute appearances scoring six goals. This season he has scored twice (three times including the disallowed Newcastle goal) in two starts. He may not be silky, he may not be the most co-ordinated of strikers, but that form is pretty impressive by anyone’s standards, so how about we give him a break? You never know, he might even warm to us a bit since the relationship between Victor and the fans has never been great. Yes, he spat his dummy out a few seasons ago, but he could well be instrumental in keeping us ticking over this season should anything happen to Jelavic. That’s Entertainment All of this has been achieved without Bryan Oviedo, of whom big things are expected, and with only a partial input from Kevin Mirallas who has nevertheless already slotted a couple, and against Newcastle looked mightily impressive. Anyone remember a cat called Jack Rodwell? I thought not. The football we have been playing has been (whisper it) of an attacking variety and at times it has been breathtaking. Against United we played them off the park. The first half against Newcastle exhibited some beautiful link up play, most notably for Leighton’s goal.Things are looking Blue and beautiful so far this season and as long as we can keep the standard of our football high, Everton Football Club could seriously be considering grabbing some silverware this season. Nice one. Time For Truth The tribute before the Newcastle game was superb and everyone at Everton Football Club should be congratulated for the thought and compassion that went into it. From red and blue shirts with 9 and 6 on them to the music and the applause, the whole affair was conducted with dignity and I am sure even the stoniest hearted Evertonian must have been moved. We have the truth, now let’s get JUSTICE.
Standards During the Olympics extravaganza I ventured out for something to eat prior to settling down to watch some of the athletic excellence. The athletics began at 6.40pm so I wanted something easy and light and chose a suitable venue to meet my requirements. The establishment was popular and there was a queue for placing orders but I was second in, so considered that I had plenty of time. Unfortunately, the dining group in front of me could only be described as gargantuan, and really that word does not do justice to the blubberous mountains I was attempting to see around. Mrs Fatfuck was carrying a baby I guessed to be approximately 6 months old, but his head was the size of a basketball and his forearm had the girth of a Blue Whale’s flaccid cock. It also wore a RS top. I was so alarmed I took a surreptitious picture of them with my phone to show to Mrs. Jackson III, knowing she is a reader of the National Enquirer. Mr Fatfuck seemed a pretty unassuming guy, and I initially had sympathy for him because he lived with this beast-like harridan, until I saw that shirt on his (or the milkman’s) offspring. She began to question everything on the menu and make ridiculous demands on the waiting staff regarding how she required her food served. “Are those the ones with the sauce? Well I want one with and two without”. “Does this have garnish? I don’t want any of that”. “Is that the food that tastes spicy? Well I don’t want mine to taste like that!” “Is a drink included in the price?” It was KFC for fucks sake, but this was obviously her one night out a year (no doubt due to an ASBO and her fat ‘disability’) and by God was she going to enjoy it. She then announced that she wanted to use the baby changing facilities (she had to ‘empty’ her Zepplin-esque charge before filling him with more shit to maintain his figure). She slithered into the facilities only to emerge seconds later, loudly telling her fellow diners that they were “a fucking disgrace. There’s shit all over the bog roll holder”.
further to my interminable wait to order. I was tempted to go look, thinking that Mrs Fatfuck might well have been exaggerating given the fact she was an utter cuntbucket, but I didn’t want to lose my place in the queue and anyway, I didn’t need to. One of the staff went into remedy the problem and came out shrugging his shoulders as if to say “What mess? Where?” She had gone to squeeze her not inconsiderable frame into her seat, which she did by cursing loudly and scraping the chairs like nails on a blackboard before jamming her sizeable waist in. Meanwhile the Michelin Boy was wedged into a baby seat. I placed my order made no fuss and got out sharpish. I knew what Kopites can be like and I could see the situation turning ugly. All this took place on an Olympic evening, and I pondered on Lord Coe’s desired legacy for these games (i.e. get the fat cunts out being sporty so we can make NHS cuts) and how it is doomed to failure. The experience was traumatic but it had me looking forward to the football season because being an Evertonian means that however I feel about myself or my team on any given day, I can always laugh at the Kopites, and I thank God and Allah and the rest for that. COYB,KOKO,Peace and Love Pipecock Jackson III (Blazing in the Street End Bogs)
Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so hungry. She then made her complaint to the put upon staff adding
C30 C60 C90 GO VINYL SCORE by SHEEDY'S FINGERS side one Bowie - Hang On To Yourself / Paul Haig - Running Away (12") / Dave & Ansel Collins Double Barrel / Big Bill Broonzy - Black, Brown and White Blues / Jacques Dutronc - Et Moi / Ian McNabb - Potency / The Roches - Losing True / The Clash - Protex Blue / I Roy - Point Blank / Cabaret Voltaire - Fascist Police State side two Jeffery Lewis - Do They Owe Us A Living / The Field Mice - Clearer / Hooded Fang Younger Days / Peter Gabriel - Solsbury Hill / Jacob Miller & Trinity - I'm Just A Dread - One Shot / Billie Joe Spears - Blanket On The Ground / Half Man Half Biscuit - Took Problem Chimp To Ideal Home Exhibition / Everything But The Girl - English Rose / Ivor Cutler - If Your Breasts
Nothing Can Stop Us Now Very superstitious, writing's on the wall Very superstitious, ladders bout' to fall Stevie Wonder had it just about right. We are a very superstitious lot. Football fans in general, Evertonians in particular perhaps. Personally, I won't shave on the morning of a match. Just won't. If I don't there's a good chance I've helped Everton win. If I do I'm responsible for us getting beat. It's not just me. We asked recently on our (ahem) various social media platforms for your match day superstitions and we were overwhelmed by the response. All of which made me think. What if we all committed to ensuring that we all did our pre-match rituals before a game? A three-line whip. All in, without fail. We would be invincible. Truly invincible Come on, let's give a great big Evertonian welcome... Here are some of your match day superstitions: John Wharton I haven't seen an Everton penalty since David Unsworth missed v Sheff Weds in 1996
James O'Neill Sky plus match of the day on matchday (series link is cheating so doesn't work)
Si Barton Have to wear something blue, and make sure my son is too and the mrs is banned from wearing any form of red.
Anthony Clarke Got to go through same turn style and steps to seat
Robert Jones I will never bet on an Everton match, either to win or to lose. Steve Carley I never wear an Everton shirt while they play! Richard Martin got to eat an Eccles cake before the game... mince pie at Christmas is allowed! Robert J Woodruff Senior If we win I don't change my underpants till Tuesday Kieron Rathe Sing my version of Liverpool Lou called 'Everton Blue' in the shower. If I'm watching on tele I have a large cup of tea that I have to start drinking the second of the kick-off and I can't finish it til half time. Same again with the second half. And extra time. And pens. Screwed that up against Fiorentina and Jags missed. QED. Tommy Fearns Won't kiss the wife good bye but always pat the dog (true )
David Shortall Always say hello to Dixie's statue and touch his ball(s). Richard Osborne We've never won while I've been wearing one of my WSAG t-shirts. Great for casual wear, shite for the match. Sorry. Enzo De Santis Always listen to alright by cast before leaving the house, always have for some reason and now the ocd kicks in. John Donnelly Always the same turnstile and hand my ST back to my Dad to look after.. Mike Williams Don't set Sky or MOTD to record beforehand. Andrew Hill I always walk the same route to the ground from the alehouse, namely via Dane Street. Phil Redmond I have to read the Saturday Echo's Everton preview before the match
Elaine Creasy I have to roll up my programme and clap the team onto the pitch with it in my right hand. Jonno I refuse to back Everton in any bet, since doing so caused us to only draw with forest in 86. Scott Graham always go down for a half time pint with 12mins left. We always score. Graham Cookson different streets used when leaving the game - (d)Ismay street is essential to cancel out (and prevent another) defeat Rob Unsworth Clap only when you see the referee coming out of the tunnel, not at the start of z cars #wsagjinx Dave Jones buy a programme from the same fella, next to Stanley Park gates. Get a nervous sweat if for some reason I can't. #wsagjinx dutchrudder I wore the same clobber for every round of the cup in 1995. A leather jacket in May. Sweatin Neil Mattocks I have to walk to the game, same route or we lose. I won't sit in the Park End, I've never seen us win when I've sat there. John Coyne Refuse to wear plain blue and white scarf passed down from my grandad as I wore it once & we lost 3-0 home v T'mere. Kevin MacCallum During zcars, I say "come on Everton", my dad says "come on you tricky blues". Otherwise we lose. Guaranteed.
Lydia wore the same-unwashed-outfit: sat at 09 final in tights, boots, shirt, jumper, winter coat, hat & gloves on standby (Lydia could have a whole column on her own, and maybe will next time...) graeme beswick don't wear my button badge, always get turned over when I wear it on a certain jacket! Jonesy I've tried them all, except hiding under the duvet whispering "no no no no..." Paul 'Elly' don't wear red, even seat number Andy Mitchell I never watch us take a penalty. The semi against United in 2009 was hellish on the Wembley concourse. Millsy I have that many superstitions now it makes me quite ill. Clothes, music, how many steps to my seat. Loads more Robert Gavin me and my mate who i sit next to will never go in the same turnstile, no matter how pissed. Jay McVey never use Subway on Rice Lane/Queens Dr when walking to game. Instead I vault over the railings and cross the road #wsagjinx Sean Rostron If these worked we'd be champions every year. YOU PEOPLE ARE MENTAL.
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Life begins... by The Man in Black Between the excellent demolition of Newcastle on the final day of the season, tainted only by losing various bets on Man Utd winning the league (2 goals in injury time, really? and the smug faces waiting to collect at the Spellow) and the equally impressive display against Utd first up this campaign, I achieved a significant birthday, 40 to be precise. To be honest I wasn't dreading it like I thought I would, I had already had a fantastic lad's holiday in May, with memories that will live with me forever, and I had lots of nights out and prezzies to look forward to, where's the downside? Well first of all I received some lovely tops from friends and family, all of which, I noticed, had one more X on the label, going from XL to XXL in many cases, as a result of my slowly expanding waistline, I assume I will just get Jacomo vouchers next year. Happily, they were (mostly) too big for me and were exchanged, although as I sit here writing this eating a huge curry the thought occurs to me that I maybe should have
put them away for future use.
The next indication that I'm not getting any younger was when I agreed to take my arl mum to a charity night at the Empire featuring all her favourite old bands. We were sat near the front, in the middle of the row and after about 20 minutes or so I was bursting to go to the toilet. I must have been the youngest in the vicinity by a good 20 years and I was the first to go for a piss, how embarrassing. My only comfort came with the realisation that the six pints I had pre show were a major contributing factor, and there must have been a few colostomy bags in the audience. My birthday fell just before our away game at the land that time forgot, Morecambe, which turned into a thoroughly enjoyable day out. We arrived by train and ventured into one of the local pubs, which made the pubs in my area seem positively glamorous. They actually ran out of draught lager during our second round, at 12 45 on a Saturday afternoon, forcing us to move on to another equally horrific bar. It was a lovely warm day and we cantered to victory before stopping off at some sort of hotel/sports complex for a few beers before our train home. As I say it was a lovely day so we sat outside enjoying our beverages, when we spotted a young couple all alone in the hotel pool, and they were doing anything but swimming! She was straddling him and they were clearly lost in a world of their own and unaware that a hundred or so blues were keeping a very keen eye on them and their antics. It was at that point that Johno said "I will get the next round in if......." and that's as far as he got before Jay was off, shedding garments as he disappeared inside the complex. It must have been like a labyrinth in there because it seemed ages until he reappeared in just a chain that a Grafton gigolo would be ashamed of, an alarmingly tight pair of undies, and black socks. The socks were removed and after playing to the crowd by preening and flexing his muscles, he dive bombed into the pool expertly landing right between the stunned lovers, to the biggest cheer of the day. Actually they took it really well even when he complimented her on her ample chest, "thanks, would you like to motorboat them" came the reply. He was stunned just long enough for the opportunity to pass him by and he
returned soaked and sockless as a result of the pool attendant confiscating them to teach him a lesson, didn't stop him joining us in town on our return though.
Ï Ï Ï Ï Ï Ï
Actually, watching Morecambe reminded me of a funny story from my previous job that I had completely forgotten until recently. A new lad in our place who seemed to have a very high opinion of himself told us all that he played for Accrington Stanley, this was before they were promoted to league two (I know it's not Morecambe, but they play in red and are pretty shit), and not only that but he claimed that Blackburn were monitoring his progress.
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I had no reason to disbelieve him until he bragged about scoring against Dagenham and Redbridge, commenting that it was a long journey home, from South Wales!!
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Nobody else seemed to realise this glaring error, but as he was enjoying himself so much I decided not to ruin it for him. I am so glad I didn't because shortly after we had an new intake of staff, one of which I recognised instantly, it was former Everton goalkeeper James Speare.
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I got speaking to him as he was on my shift, and it emerged he was now playing for..... Accrington Stanley! I couldn't believe it and when one my colleagues introduced him to Blackburn's number 1 target and commented on how funny it as that two players from the same team were working in our office, James took one look at him and exclaimed "I've never seen this cunt before in my life".
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I actually felt sorry for him, he was mortified and after that day he was never seen again. How unlucky was that? Out of all the teams he could have chosen. Goes to show honesty is the best policy. In conclusion, I'm not sure if life does begin at 40 or not, but after all the good wishes I received I know I am very lucky to have such good friends and family, and although I can hardly get out of bed these days after 5 a side the night before, my hair is predominantly grey, and, as touched upon earlier my shirt size is darts player I can still count my blessings and I still cling to the hope that my beloved blues will win something again in my lifetime, over to you Mr Moyes.
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Kevin Mirallas Good Cop Bob Dylan Proper Magazine Being dead funny That Liverpool documentary – comedy gold Cheshire cheese Victor Anichebe's goals Curly Wurly’s Reminiscing about 1979 Dexys Being old Being a miserable arl bastard X Factor debates in the car on the way to the match The Great British Bake Off 12.9.2012
Shite
SYP Joe Xavi Allen Brendan Rogers’ 100 page presentation Ben 10 Ultimate Alien Pink tribute acts Fellaini’s gob Raheem Sterling the new Danny Cadamarteri FIFA ratifications Geri Halliwell's Scouse credentials Gangham Style Getting upset about missing out on signing someone you’ve never heard of Victor Anichebe’s body language Evertonians who cannot differentiate between their hated of Liverpool FC and the fight for justice by the families of the 96. 20 year olds from Cornwall who travel up to Anfield every fortnight and think the Hillsborough campaign is anything to do with them.
Alehouse Rants Random thoughts from the snug 1. Nike Copycat Some people are never happy. For years some have been crying out for a Nike kit and then when we finally get one they moan that it's not bespoke.
It's just shit. I know it's there seemingly because the crest in itself isn't marketable enough - or so the men in advertising tell us - but wouldn't it be easier to do a quick resign of the whole crest to include the words 'Everton' instead of having it badly stitched below.
Really? What did you expect? Only the biggest of the big get something unique and then it's not always that special. United gingham top or Barcelona's rave away kit anyone?
A simple Google revealed this old lapel badge. Easy isn't it.
Ok so Bradford, Dundee United and Orient look like they have something very similar to our kit but hasn't it always been that way.
3. Goal-line technology Load of bollocks. Why can't the linesman just do his fuckin' job? Take that cunt the other night against Newcastle. He can spot a shirt-tug but he doesn't know the offside rule and he can't look straight ahead of him and judge whether or not the ball has gone past two dirty big white sticks. Fuckin' useless. In no other industry would such incompetence be tolerated.
4. Harry Redknapp
My favourite Everton kit was 1976/77 - the Umbro full diamonds down the sleeves. When we got it, Scotland already had it. As the season kicked off so did Manchester City, Bristol City, Bolton and probably a few others my slowing brain can't quite remember. Didn't bother me legging around Clubmoor Rec pretending to be Bob Latchford. I'm sure it doesn't bother kids now. I'm not arsed about adults moaning about the sleeves either. It's not designed for you.
2. What's Our Name If you're going to get upset about something, get upset about the continued use of the word 'Everton' underneath the crest on the shirts.
Hypocritical twat. For years he whinges about the BBC after that programme brands him a bent bastard. Doesn't talk them for ages. Now, here he is on Match Of The Day all pally with 'Lawro'. And, have you seen those shitty adverts. Will someone give him a job so he fucks off our screens. Please.
5. Liverpool Would you believe it, they can't even beat United? They never do us any favours do they? Set up for them wasn't it and they fucked it up. And what the hell was on that bit of paper, prettyboy Henderson brought on? You're shite probably.
AB BOVE AR RE JUST SOME OF O THE NEW N DE ESIGNS F FROM OUR O T-SH HIRT SH HOP. TH HERE’S A FEW OF O THEM M. SOME E OLD ON NES TOO. ALL ON NLINE AN ND READ DY TO BE B ORDE ERED. WE HAV VE DECIDED TO RUN EV VERYTH HING TH HROUGH H SPR READSHIIRT. TH HIS MEA ANS THA AT THEY Y WILL L LOOK AF FTER THE PR RODUCT TION AN ND POST TING OF ALL T-S SHIRTS. IT ME EANS WE GET TO T DO MO ORE SIZ ZES, MO ORE COLO OURS. MORE M DESIGNS AND A PRO OVIDE AN A ALL ROUND R B BETTER R SERVICE.
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http:///69850 03.spreaadshirt.cco.uk/
The wonder of you ‐ The Liver Birds (part one of two) I was recently ‘approached’ on line by a theatre director who had read my stuff (not, thankfully, what I send to WSAG) and wanted me to contribute to a project celebrating the north as a wondrous place. Named after the Billy Fury ditty, it features a dozen creative types from Manchester, Newcastle, Sheffield and Liverpool, each of whom has a week to curate the website with their views on what makes their city – and the north in general - so special. This in turn should be the inspiration for a stage production next year at the Unity theatre... You can look at it all on www.northernspirit.org.uk as my offerings will be up during the week beginning October 15th. I decided that the focus of my submission will be on the emblem of our city, the Liver Birds. Not the sitcom. Rather, those 5.5 metres high statues that watch over us and adorn a thousand postcards. I knew the basics about them, as most people do, and quickly discovered a lot after some initial research. The myths that surround them and their overall wonder is what I wanted to concentrate on. Despite their omnipresence, and status across the city, people generally seem a little unsure of them, and many I have spoken to have questioned their very nature and importance by seemingly not knowing much about them, their history nor the tales that have surrounded them over the past hundred or so years.
man and a virgin woman pass / fall in love (delete where appropriate) and therefore the city would cease to exist ie fall to the ground. The disconcertingly vague multiple versions of the rumours here probably form part of the reason why so many people have heard them yet nobody believes them, and the fact that nothing so far has happened, suggested this be the case. Indeed, over time, when people presumable realised that the city was not at risk of spontaneous disappearance, a watered down version of this tale developed, suggesting simply that if either the man or woman mentioned walks by the birds, they flap their wings: I am not sure why, presumably excitement or sexual frustration. But some people still do believe, especially those who, in local hostelries, sing a little known chorus from an extended version of in my Liverpool home: Our Liverpool ladies will hug and kiss men But a virtuous lady you’ll find now and then Our eighteen foot lyver birds perched up on high They flap their great wings every time she goes by In my Liverpool home...
Now I am pretty honest, and have walked down the Strand quite a few times, and never witnessed a flapping of wings up to now, but a part of me still wants to believe the story because it does create a sense of mystery about
“The liver is a mythical bird that once haunted the shoreline. The female is looking out to sea watching for seamen, while the male is making sure the pubs are open...” The birds are seemingly a strange mix of cormorant and eagle, or something else – or, according to a display at Liverpool museum in the shadow, a dove or a spoonbill perhaps, for the twitchers amongst us – maybe even a phoenix. We do know that they have a sprig of broom in their mouths, or maybe it is laver (seaweed) and they are unofficially called ‘our people’ and ‘our prosperity’.
the place.
The theory about them which intrigued me the most though was their very existence, and the possibility that they might fly away should they see each other / mate / fall in love or an honest
Quite why this should part of my monthly contribution to WSAG might not so far have been clear, but should now become obvious, and no,
Obviously I don’t want the city to cease to exist, but I like the idea that we are being protected, and maybe one day the birds will come to life just like the statues in Ghostbusters...
it’s not because our chairman featured in a famous episode of the Carla Lane series. Whilst most of us probably link said bird emblem to our nearest and dearest, it did of course initially represent the blue half of Merseyside. Indeed, it featured on our first league championship medals in 1890, two years before the formation of the lovable Reds. Up until the war, the liver bird was shared between both clubs, until Rupert’s Tower and those laurel wreaths I always used to think had something to do with Fred Perry, were introduced. The advent of replica shirts and presumably various events since, have entwined the birds even closer to Anfield. So many of ‘them’ have bad tattoos of the bird with five stars around it, indeed a part of me wants them to win just one more Champions League to make the tattoos look unbalanced for anyone wishing to add an extra star. This year the Warrior shirts have changed the badge back to the pre-90s version, a change we are not allowed to write about. However, an old ECHO article reminded me that a fellow blue appealed unsuccessfully to the club to consider re-adopting the bird a couple of years ago. They reported that ‘in 2008, Liverpool FC unsuccessfully tried to trademark the Liver Bird as part of a crackdown against counterfeit kit. But its application was withdrawn after it was opposed by the city council, who said the symbol belonged to the whole city. At the time, Everton spokesman Ian Ross said: “We have no plans to attempt to reclaim the Liver Bird symbol. I think even the most devout Evertonian knows that the Liver Bird is now synonymous with Liverpool FC...”’ forgetting that John Moores University, The University of Liverpool, and the city council, even the Echo, all share it too, by the way, as well as several buildings and other logos across town (you can do a tour of selected sites). But our own club also created an elaborate hoax for April Fools’ Day back in 2004. As I recall, they suggested a red and yellow liver bird would be on the following season’s kit, which given the history we know about, isn’t actually as preposterous as it sounds. Various angry fans complained, much hilarity ensured. And more recently, the Echo also tricked readers by joking that the building itself was being sold
off to some American investors for a theme park, which some might say bizarrely enough mirrored the fortunes of Liverpool FC. But do you know what, since visiting the birds and doing all this reading and thinking about them, I do wonder about the ‘other’ bird. They only have one. They share it with various other organisations, brands, and bins. Could there be a place for the forgotten liver bird to be incorporated into our own shirt design or badge, at all? We are the rightful owners, the appropriators – we were here first.
original
Maybe we could adopt, reclaim even, that other bird, and be the Polly James to their Nerys Hughes, the one looking over the pubs and women of the city rather than the one more bothered about what is going on across the water. Or, ‘the people’ as opposed to ‘the prosperity’.... Think about it before the derby. (To Be Continued) Carl Bernard Bartels
7 Ways To Love We like these, you may do too
Brief introductions or re-introductions to... By The Sea Someone mentioned this band to us. Right up your street they said. And they were right. A local six-piece steeped in north west coast psychedelic traditions. We think they are mighty fine.
David Bowie - Hunky Dory There's been loads on the telly about Bowie recently. Much of it great. For us, Hunky Dory is the album. If you haven't heard it for a while - or at all (shame on you) - go dig it out.
TeenCanteen Four girls from Glasgow. One job shares in Jesus, Baby mentioned last time. (They have links to Neu Reekie - a cool monthly meeting of
all my long-cherished favourites are on there. It would appear that Julian knew what he was talking about. Buy any of the Scott albums and you're in for a treat.
avant-garde poetry, music and film fusions.) Comparisons are always a little crass but they sound like the Shangri La's mixed up with the Mo Dettes. If that doesn't spark your interest, you have cloth ears.
Bill Ryder Jones As we often say, one of the benefits of doing WSAG is that sometimes you get stuff. Like being able to listen to demos of Bill's new album "A Bad Wind Blow In My Heart". Absolutely great. Quality stuff. We'll keep you informed as to releases.
Scott Walker - Fire Escape In The Sky: The God-like Genius Of Scott Walker Beautifully compiled by Julian Cope and released on Zoo Records many years ago. This was the record which started the devotion to Scott and his music. Yet, until recently I'd never heard it. Back then, when I was young and impressionable, if Julian liked it, I did too. But back then too, it was hard to find and things moved on. My dad found me vinyl copies of Scott 2 and Scott 3 in a jumble sale for 10p each and immediately I was hooked. Recently, I found a copy and remarkably
Stealing Sheep Fantastically named girl trio. "Sepulchral lo-fi soundscapes and lyrical alchemy" said The Sunday Times of their debut album "Into The Diamond Sun". No, we don't understand it either but we like what we hear and implore you to explore. On Heavenly Records, who know how to spot a good thing.
A Certain Ratio - The Big E I think it's been said before in WSAG just how much love we have for ACR. And even though we love all the early Factory funk stuff it's the polished A&M single 'The Big E' which if push came to shove would be in our all time top 5 records. So good, we named a WSAG piece after it.
Som metw weet on My M Mind M Follow us s @wsagfan nzine and let l us know w what you u think abo out the games or about life in general After Swan A nsea @ChippyMiinton81 Hatte knee jerk re eactions, butt this is the best eve erton team I have ever seen. (I'm ( 6) @WayneRo ooney Evertton are playing brilliiant. David Moyes M has done so ome job overr last 10 years @stvsthew world Love it when Everton are boss. Too early e to say top fourr but top six is a real possibility. @ecwc85 Fucking awe esome blues march h on #5wordmatchreport @damom73 3 fucking ac ce @mikemurrphy1979 th hat Anichebe lad d, the new Drogba D he is, mark my words @Craigy_Craigo when we're good, we're ace @felix_mittchao Watch hing Everton at the t moment is an utter joy. Ex xciting, fluen nt attacking football. COYB B. @paulcavo74 a maste erclass from the School of Scien nce. @antonialo ou lovely. like this Everton. Vic c not so big anymore bu ut looking sle eek & confident.So ome of the fo ootball was lush @cranstonffearns Moy yes' football: the ey've done studies, you know. 60% 6 of the time, it works every y time.
@Carl_M M_Harper An if, yer kno, yer history, its enough e to make yerr heart go oooooooo ooooooo @jrwyke e Profligate
@bluebmx71 Neville shite e, missed gib bbo, jelavic goin n off was also o shite, bad reffin, kill me no ow! #EFC @ga aryl1976 Robbed R by crap p officials butt not too impo ortant in the e grand schem me of things. #jft96 @stam mp1878 Ne eville in Gibson n's place, de eliberating over e every pass an nd miscon ntrolling all the t time is going to cost us
@nsno_8 83 every single one of them were w brilliantt. Yes, even Phil Neville.
@bash h_78 Good luck to anyone trying to encapsulate e that ga ame in 140 characters #some etweetonmy ymind
After Ne ewcastle
@conv voy104 4-2 2 draw. Never seen the lik ke. Disgra aceful referee eing there tonigh ht.
@stvsthe eworld Prou ud of the Blues effo ort, but we'v ve been done out of two pointts by shocking officiating. No N justice. @yesitsw wally Still laughing at the shouty fella be ehind me..."How can that be b that?!"
@UB4 40andSkyDiish for a pro foo otballer, Phil Neville looks llike he shits himself at the ve ery idea of ha aving posses ssion.
@Mr_We eightman robbed r pure and simple
@BarrrieWhite19 980 we go again. Played som me wonderful stuff to onight and they're t a good tteam.
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@wylllieboymike Does anyone else feel compelled to sing th he surname of our (failed d) Belgian loa an signing to o the tune of 'Well Did D You Evah?'
@afro_d dust The badly liner needed to o get his haiir out his eyes.
@joe_ _perry33 Bu uzzin there. Only ju us picked up p my @w wsagfanzine e from the united game, and saw my #s sometweeton nmymind had m made the cut!! Class!!
@robertgavin11 I hope that guy who was sat nea ar me tonight hasn't got a season s ticket #b bute  @immattters_efc Don't D you just hate Everton som metimes? P Nev a liability in miid, poor decisions s all over #ref #de efence #leon n @Spuds_ _gravy alan pardew is a bellend.
WSA AG171 - Noveember 2012 2 Out for the Norw wich game. Full off hope.
onwardevertonians The usual round-up. A bit longer this time due to the number of games. When the last issue went to print, the sun was shining and the birds were singing after the Toffees had torn Swansea a new one. The talk then was of trophies and top 4 finishes as David Moyes’ team continued the sparkling run of form that started in January. Since then, the nights have started to draw in and things have undoubtedly become more difficult as injuries and suspensions have started to bite. The first set back arrived whilst we were still in the printers with a truly horrible exit from the league cup at Leeds. Every year Evertonians look to the league cup as a realistic chance of a trophy and a passport to Europe. One wonders if the club see it in the same light. Five thousand Blues travelled over the Pennines on a filthy night and were “rewarded” with a limp surrender by half a team. The likes of Fellaini and Heitinga skulked around like they’d rather have been sprawled on the couch watching repeats of Man v Food on Dave, whilst Magye Gueye and Francisco Junior exposed starkly the true strength of our first team squad. Surely even the most hardened “anyone but Neville” bore must’ve been given food for thought that night. Off the field there was apparently shenanigans between Evertonians in the West Stand at Elland Rd and the West Yorkshire plod. Wasn’t there, didn’t see it apart from some dodgy youtube clips, but claims and counterclaims went back and forth about shitehawk behaviour by a minority of Evertonians against heavy handed 80’s style policing by West Yorkshire's finest. As with all these things the truth was probably somewhere in the middle, with the proviso that Everton’s away support has
been known to get increasingly leery once the ticket allocations pass the 5000 mark and the lid factor increases. Newly promoted Southampton came to Goodison on the back of their first win of the season the previous week against Villa and with a league cup win in midweek, they must have fancied their chances. Indeed for 20 minutes a shock result looked on the cards, the Blues looked shaky at the back and the Saints looked to add to Gaston Ramirez’s early goal. At that point the Toffees slipped into gear and what followed was 25 minutes of the best football seen at Goodison for many a year. The Blues went in at half time 3-1 to the good, but quite honestly it could’ve been many more. Almost inevitably, the second half tailed off, indeed the Saints could well have got themselves back into the game. Whatever, Everton ended the day in second place. Onto Wigan and a remarkably open game which could’ve gone either way. From an Everton perspective, we saw freewheeling attacking football mixed with comedy defending and another refereeing howler to boot.
Going forward, the Blues were a dream with Leighton Baines on his return to Wigan turning in a display that underlined his reputation as the greatest attacking fullback Blues under the age of 50 have seen. At the back it was a different story with Johnny Heitinga in particular having a nightmare which culminated in him getting yanked off at halftime. For all the Blues fine attacking play, there was again a raft of chances wasted, particularly by the lively Kevin Mirallas and it was approaching desperation stakes until the second equaliser arrived in the dying minutes. Even then, Wigan could’ve pinched it at the death and they will think they also should’ve won, despite the fact that Aruna Kone’s opener was clearly offside. From there it was the football fans bane, international week. Is there anyone left who actively supports a team who is remotely arsed about international football. Let's face it, its shit.
Your star players spend a week being scattered across the globe, being “misquoted” in the local press, whilst getting booted up the arse by that jealous Azerbaijani fullback who’s agent hasn’t quite got them that move to the west. Meanwhile you get dragged round B@Q and get lumbered with sorting the garden out before winter. Please ban international football. After all that nonsense it was off to the capital to face bottom of the table QPR. The R’s and their underfire boss, the reptilian Mark Hughes, seemed to have targeted this game as a must win after their awful start and I commented just before the kick off that we’d win comfortably if we could just subdue Rangers for the first 20 minutes. Of course the Toffees took precisely 2 minutes to gift QPR the opener and with their tails now up and a team which on paper at least, looks strong, it was going to be tough afternoon. In truth, Everton never got to grips with the game and it was only at set pieces where QPR’s comedy defending gave us hope. At the end of the day it was character and gritty defending by the like of Jagielka and Neville that earned us a hard-won point. Like many games this season, the aftermath was dominated by the ridiculous amount of fucking whinging about a string of marginal refereeing decisions that seems to go with every game these days. The thing that gets me is this sense of phoney accountability that people seem to have around modern football these days.
Which leads us nicely onto the derby. Twenty minutes in, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who had a 30 year flashback to Ian Rush and Glenn Keeley as the Everton defence folded to give the shower a 2-0 lead with their first 2 attacks. Luckily Leon Osman drilled home almost immediately and what followed was a Southampton style 25 minute blitz where the Blues should’ve put the game to bed. The decidedly average looking Stephen Naismith levelled but this was scant reward for the absolute fucking the Blues gave their nearest and not so dearest. I’m sure comedy fullback Andre Wisdom is still waking up in a cold sweat after the dry bumming he received off Kevin Mirallas and his torment only ended when that maggot Suarez put the Belgian out of the game with as snidey an ankle tap as you’ll ever see. Liverpool have had some absolute shitehawks playing for them down the years think of the likes of Emlyn Hughes, Jimmy Case and John Aldridge, but this cunt takes the biscuit. There’s no doubt Luis Suarez is a major talent, without him Liverpool would be battling to stay out of the bottom three never mind fighting for 8th. Singlehandedly he’s still giving the cranks some delusions of grandeur. For all that, on the pitch he’s a twat. Forget the arm waving, gesticulating and diving, what singles Suarez out
A fella gives a loose pass, he’s shit and must be dropped, a team drops a couple of points, the manager needs to go and the referee sends somebody off for not having the benefit of the 56 camera angles that Sky have and he’s an incompetent cheat. Do we really want TV running the game more than they already do? Do we really want stoppages every two minutes so that Stephen Gerrard can contest a throw in?
A kneeslide after... oh wait. Knobhead are the never ending kicks and stamps. Make no mistake, at some point, someone's going to shred his cruciate.
A Kneeslide after a goal.
Whatever it was Suarez’s intervention that changed the course of the derby and again laid bare the limitations of David Moyes’ squad. Magaye Gueye again failed to take his chance and while the Blues controlled the second half, Liverpool looked extremely dangerous on the break with Suarez and the impressive looking Raheem Sterling stretching the vulnerable looking Everton defence. Suarez also left his mark on Sylvain Distin with another one of his shithouse tricks before the last minute drama which for once went our way. Clearly Everton got out of jail with that one, but as Suarez shouldn’t
have been on the pitch at that stage, justice (to coin a phrase), was done. Even more hilarious than the disallowed goal was the aftermath with the washed up Stephen Gerrard crying like the spoilt bastard that he is. After even his mates in the media laughed at his assertion that only Liverpool tried to play football, the DJ beating phoney climbed down later that week. In the cold light of day, I’m sure even Stevie Me has realised that this is probably the worst Liverpool team since the 50’s. All joking aside this had to go down as two points dropped against a mid-table team and for the Fulham game the following Saturday David Moyes made a decisive change to his leaky defence with Johnny Heitinga replacing the out of form Distin.
defences when he hits form. Someone will get it soon. With the best striker seen at Goodison since the glory years. Fellaini bullying defences all over the place and Mirallas looking one of the most exciting players in the league, there seems little wrong with the Blues offensively. Unfortunately you can’t say the same about the defence. So what is going wrong at the back? As always there’s probably a combination of issues not just the populist view that Moyes fucks Neville off and the team will be transformed into a steely solid unit.
Not that it made that much difference with more poor defending and even worse finishing costing the Blues another 2 points.
Everton were magnificent at Craven Cottage, with Marouane Fellaini absolutely unplayable. It's enough to say that the Blues should’ve been four or five one up before Seamus Coleman fell asleep at the death to allow Steve Sidwell to slot a scandalously undeserved equaliser. From a game where two points were thrown away, to a game where the three points came from nowhere. Most people had Sunderland at home as a banker. The Black cats came in poor form with a worse scoring record than a hunchback with psoriasis. They did however come with a plan and after holding the Blues relatively comfortably, broke out regularly to carve out a number of decent chances. Another defensive howler right on halftime gave the Blues a mountain to climb. To be honest, the Blues struggled in the second half and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who’d given up when Marouane Fellaini took charge. His equalising goal came completely out of the Blue and before Sunderland recovered, a sumptuous flick sent Nikica Jelavic in for the winner. Jelavic may not have hit the height of last spring as of yet, but he’s still comfortably maintained a one in two goal ratio. God help opposition
Tim Howard still makes the occasional cock up that usually results in a goal and whilst there’s not many better keepers in the league, he clearly needs more competition than that clown Mucha can provide. Obviously the loss of Darron Gibson has been a major blow particularly as Phil Neville has struggled on occasions. To be balanced he’s also been excellent at times as well, particularly against United, Swansea and in the derby, a fact his critics won’t acknowledge. Phil Neville has been one of David Moyes’ best ever signings, is a fantastic professional, always bigs the club up and is a steady 7/10 performer week after week. Frankly he deserves a lot more respect than he gets off a sizeable number of Evertonians. With Hitzlsperger building up his fitness, Fellaini starring further up the pitch and Junior obviously unready, David Moyes has had little option but to play Neville as the anchor again a fact that seems to have escaped some Blues. Another option mentioned is obviously the on loan Ross Barkley who appears to be returning to form at Hillsborough. At the moment that would appear to be the best option as the youngster on his latter appearances in Everton’s first team had clearly lost his confidence. I’ve heard some people say that how if Barkley was ready last year, how come he’s not this year. The answer would appear to be that he wasn’t ready last year and only got his chance because Moyes had little option. Ross Barkley is hopefully going to live up to the hype and become the special player we all hope, but he clearly needs to get some discipline in his game.
Even now in his starring role at Wednesday he can be seen on the football league show, ambling back as the opposition breaks at speed. He’s clearly not equipped at present to play a holding role. Getting back to the Blues backline, another problem has been the injury to Tony Hibbert which has necessitated Seamus Coleman filling in at right back. The doughty Irishman clearly has a lot to offer going forward but is still incredibly prone to dive in and ballwatch. Faults that have directly led to goals conceded this season. However all things considered, this has been an excellent start to the season for Everton, with the proviso that things can change with a poor run of form or an injury to an important player. For example it's to be hoped that Kevin Mirallas’ hamstring problem isn’t too severe. This is potentially the best team that David Moyes has had during his time at Goodison. Let's hope all goes to plan. Forza Azzurri
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Branch boasted the same lightening pace as a young Owen but nowhere near the same level of cold eyed precision that made the Chester ponce a world star at the 1998 World Cup. What Branch definitely had in common with Owen was a dodgy hamstring and after a string of pulls and breakdowns found himself farmed out to Man City before Wolves came in with a sizable bid in 2000. At the age of 22, Michael Branch found his career hurtling downwards and to be honest I’ve no idea where he went after Molyneux. Somewhere down the line he ended up back in Aigburth and somewhere down the line he’s got into dealing. I suppose, how else was he going to maintain a flash lifestyle. Anyway the other week he got banged up for 7 years and joined the alternative Goodison hall of shame. Duncan Ferguson: A ridiculous 3 month sentence for tangling with some Hamilton Accies player. Tony Kay: Bribes scandal Albert Dunlop: Dodgy accountancy and fraud Alex “Sandy” Young: The 1906 cup winner may or may not have been hanged in Australia for murder. Mark Ward : Beak
*********************** And, kind of, Reading summed it all up. Some fantastic football, loads of chances, missed opportunities, very poor refereeing decisions, injuries and finally a wheel fell off. Disappointing but we have to move on. Get stronger
*********************** It's difficult to feel sorry for a young fella like Michael Branch who has had and spunked more dough than the average man could ever dream about and the case of Michael Branch underlines the dangers of giving untold riches to young kids fresh out of school. In truth, though, I've always felt a bit sorry for Branch who was hyped up by the club as Everton’s answer to Michael Owen when he broke into the first team at the age of 17 in 1996, then dropped like a stone when things didn’t go to plan.
The big Belgian has been, to the public at large the main reason for the Toffees impressive form this season. There’s no doubt that at times he’s been unplayable, but it's also true to say that with the likes of Jagielka, Baines, Pienaar, Miralles, Osman and Jelavic, we’ve got more than a few top players at Goodison these days. Fellaini certainly rates himself though and judging by the comments of both himself, earlier
this season and indeed David Moyes recently, its highly likely he’ll be on his way before long. It's to be hoped that he at least gives it to the end of the season before making up his mind. Nothing must be allowed to distract the squad from its attack on the Champions league places this year and Fellaini can do his bit by pulling his tripe out and keeping his grid shut.
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Speaking of the Echo, is it possible to pick up a copy without seeing or reading about: • • • • • •
• •
Marcus Collins Christopher Maloney (and his nan) The Evertonian one who used to be in Atomic Kitten The other one Photos of skinhead youths in police custody Nomark plassy celebrities in bars and restaurants which are only frequented by other no mark plassy celebrities and their wannabe mates Drug dealer trials etc etc etc
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Like a lot of Evertonians, I couldn’t give a shite about England or international football. However I couldn’t help but be excited for Leon Osman on his call up for the Sweden game.
Now that Liverpool FC have stopped fucking around and decided they’re not now building on Stanley Park, wouldn’t it be nice if they paid to replace the well known community sports resource they needlessly destroyed a few years ago and finally put something back into the area for a change.
Rarely has a player split opinion than Leon with some fans appreciating his undoubted talent, graft and professionalism, whilst others dismissing him as a lightweight who never does it in the big games. I’m firmly in the former camp.
Maybe the local MP who appears to do fuck all for the locality unless it involves his favourite football team got his finger out.
It's easy to forget that Leon’s early career was almost finished by a string of serious injuries, indeed he was almost 23 before he made a senior start. For the past 8 years Osman has been a constant in David Moyes’ squad and has been a central figure in a squad which may not have won any trophies but has delivered the most consistent league form since the 60’s.
*********************** One of the most remarkable achievements of the snake oil salesman currently running first team affairs over the park has been to seemingly seduce the support as a whole into accepting the clubs fucked.
At 31, its unlikely that Leon will win many caps, but it's nice that such a loyal, consistent performer has been rewarded in this way.
I’ve listened agog as normally, seemingly sane reds have backed this phoney as he gently told them that 8th is in fact the new 4th for them.
Congratulations Ossie.
Here’s a club that whether we like it or not, on achievement alone, is one of the giants of European football. They’re being told by a fella who’s quite frankly achieved fuck all, that finishing 8th after wasting £26 million on a pair of Swansea players is an achievement and they’re lapping it up.
*********************** I keep hearing all manner of guff from the likes of that tit James Pearce at the Echo about the flourishing academy at Anfield that has produced the likes of Suso, Sterling and Wisdom who’ve all broken through at the tin mine this season. I think I’m right in pointing out that all of these players were actually poached from other clubs academies and in the cases of Suso and Sterling involved sizable transfer fees.
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Over to you Steve.
Everything in Brendan’s world is fantastic, magnificent. Luis Suarez is one of the top two strikers in the world, Joe Allen is the Welsh Xavi and Glenn Johnson the best left back in the Premier league. The reality is that Liverpool are at the time of writing 13th in the league…..Long may he reign.
5 Things we learnt from watching Everton since last time.... 1.Penalty Box Kings It’s been well documented that the Blues have created more chances and recorded more shots than any side in the top 5 leagues in Europe. As the visual here shows we work the ball into the box and have more touches in opposing 18 yard zones than any side in the league. This has led to us being less risk averse defensively with our high line causing problems when we lose the ball. It hasn’t quite been the omnishambles it can sometimes appear during quick transitions; in total we’ve conceded the 6th fewest chance in the league.
2.Osman and his Cigar Leon Osman’s England Call-up this month was just reward for a great professional and loyal servant at L4. The pint sized midfield schemer has never been a massive fan favourite down the years, often paying the price for his versatility by filling in on the flanks where he is significantly less useful than in the middle of the park given his lack of speed. It’s no coincidence that given a run of games in his preferred slot this season he has flourished with this month's games in particular showcasing his cigar smoking form. Osman has been statistically Everton’s best short and long range passer this campaign, weighing in with 89.5% completion overall. His long range distribution in particular to quickly switch play and engineer 2v1’s on the flanks has been vital. This isn’t false dominance of the ball either – Xavi Allen take note – with the bulk of his passes being forwards. He has also weighed in with a couple of goals and an assist. Given our expansive style down the flanks he has had to ‘put in a shift’ off the ball also to plug gaps in wide areas which he has done superbly, registering more tackles per game than anyone in the squad.
3. Fourth spot There has been talk of us getting 4th spot in the media since we opened up a 4 point gap on Arsenal after the Sunderland game. Village idiot Alan Shearer went as far to labelling us ‘favourites’ to take the spot, a sentiment echoed by his spectacled geriatric colleague 'Motty'. The Geordie’s dangerously
dense observations on motd make John ‘Sound as a Pound’ Aldridge's analysis on radio city seem like an Alain De Botton podcast in comparison. Anyway, we’re certainly on track to achieve fourth points wise. Usually an average of 1.8 points per game (ppg) will get you into the final champs league spot and so far we are hitting that target. This would mean us hitting our best ever points total under Moyes from 07/08 when we finished 5th, a season when 4th spot was achieved by the RS on 2.0 ppg – the highest in recent years for a team in 4th. I actually think it will be less this year given the strength of the top three in comparison, although perhaps not quite as low as 2004/5 when 1.6ppg was enough for us to get 4th– the lowest total in recent years. In terms of rivals, Spurs still seem quite inconsistent under new management with Arsenal the key rival. Whilst the Gunners have better technical footballers 1-11 our first choice side is more effective and if we can avoid injuries to key players we can cross the line before them. Obviously the injuries are a major caveat; if were short we have Magaye and Victor whereas they can look to Oxlade Chamberlain and Walcott.
4. Long Ball Merchants Passing stats overload ensued in the aftermath of last month's derby draw, with the Reds skipper specifically vocal about our perceived long ball and overly aggressive style. Irony is a word poor Shhtevie probably can't even spell. In terms of the long ball debate, whilst cholesterol jowls Allardyce and his east end evil cabal play 'percentage' balls into the box, our brand of direct play is more measured; we will mix things up and compliment sublime one touch moves down the left with longer passes into fellaini's chest. This is simply playing to your strengths and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Taggart made similar comments on the opening night of the season with the common denominator of course being sour grapes.
5. Comeback Kings Much has been made of the Premier League record we set this month for coming from behind to take something out of six games on the spin. It shouldn’t surprise us Blues though. Our superior fitness levels have always given us increased endurance and the capability to withstand heavy pressure; the goals we concede in the last 15 minutes of games over the last four seasons goes down 44% in the second half of the season from the first half. If you look back over the last 4 years we have outscored the opposition by 69 to 36 goals in the last 15 minutes of games. Last season we picked up 11 points from losing situations which ranked us 9th in the top flight comeback table. Arsenal (24) gained the most with Man Utd (3) the fewest.
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so ocks rolled d down around d my ankles s, in n the hope o of playing like my hero o. M Maybe half th he young goalkeepers on n M Merseyside d dressed thatt way when n tu urning out for their teams t on a S Sunday morn ning, but th hey didn’t in n y, I was kno own as ‘Litttle Southall’’, Hull. Locally which was the bigges st compliment of all. However, at times, things go ot a little e em mbarrassing: my boys’ team went to Goodison n fo or the final game g of the 1989/90 sea ason, and alll th he parents and a grandparents of my team-mates s were pushing th heir relativ ves ou ut of the way so o that I cou uld ge et a bettter view of m my he ero putting hiimself through hiis punishing prre-match ro outine. “ “Is th hat better, Paul? P Can yo ou see Neville now?” was s what one elde erly lady ask ked me afterr clipping her grrandson, my y captain, aro ound the ear.
My Liife wiith Nevville Southa S all by Paul Owens
It was with h both grea at excitement and a fa air amount off trepidation that I awaited the publication of Neville Southall’s autobiograph a hy, The Binman Chronicles, this summe er. Our greates st ever footb baller meant everything to me when I was w growing g up in East Yorkshire, Y one hundred and d twenty five e miles away y from L4 4E EL. To say he’s the reason I support the t Blues may be taking it a little fa ar, but he’s certainly the t reason I su upport the club so pas ssionately and took goalke eeping so se eriously in my youth: as sad as it sou unds now, Everton and stopping s a ball b from hitting the back of a net were e the only tw wo things that mattered to o me betwee en the ages of eight and seventeen. s In 1988, aged nine,, I wrote a letter to Neville, N ask king him for f goalkeeping tips, whatt the club’s s Latin mottto meant, and d where I could buy his shirt and gloves. Ima agine what my rather-c chubby-at-th hetime face lo ooked like when w I got a handwrittten reply and signed pho oto, inside an envelope postmarked Colwyn Bay, B a few weeks late er. Amazing: Everton’s goalkeeper, widely w believ ved to be the be est in the world w at the time, was my m pen pal. What’s W more,, communica ation between the two of us u would carry on in this way for the t next two years. At the begiinning of ev very season n, my paren nts would buy me m Nev’s lattest shirt, glloves and sh hin pads for my m birthday y, and, in true South hall fashion, I would w always s take to the e field with my m
What W made Neville N even n more appe ealing to me e was that he came acros ss as a really down-toea arth bloke. Despite beiing so much h better than n ev veryone else e at the club b in the late--eighties and d a class apart from all the other keepe ers in the old d First Division,, he just quietly got on with his job b. Affter a typic cally brillian nt performa ance against Manchester United U in the e very first The T Match on n IT TV, he seem med uneasy in front of the camera a an nd reluctantt to receive e his man-o of-the-match h aw ward. When pressed ffor a quote by Jim ‘Ow wl Fa ace’ Rosenth hal, he simp ply said, “I le et the gaffer do o the talking g.” In n July 1995 5, two months after my m hero had d be ecome our most decorrated playerr and an FA A Cu up winner for f the seco ond time, I attended a go oalkeeping course at Pitz Soccer Centre in n Liverpool. Itt was my sixteenth birrthday and I kn new a profe essional keep per from the city would d be e handing out the certifficates at the e end. Sure e en nough it wa as Southall; however, as a I went to o co ollect my ce ertificate an nd Sondico T-shirt from m th he Welshman n, I experien nced a mini panic attack k. I really wante ed to talk to o him and th hank him for all the letters s he had sen nt me, but all a I did was s bu urn red and d utter a mu uffled “Chee ers”. Luckily y fo or me, my mum was about to come c to my y re escue: “Neville, I just wa ant to let yo ou know that yo ou’ve been my m son’s hero for the la ast ten years s an nd it’s his biirthday toda ay. We’ve trravelled over from Hull, on the off chance that you u’d be here.” Em mbarrassing but ace! The course e finished at arround 3:30p pm, yet my mum, dad, Neville and I were still therre nearly tw wo hours late er. Once the e in nitial awkwa ardness had d disappearred, it was s re eally easy to o talk to him m. He seeme ed genuinely y
interested in my own career and said that he would pass my telephon ne number on o to scouts at professional clubs, whic ch he did. Just J before we w went our separate ways s, he called me m over to his h car and pulled a shirt an nd pair of glo oves out of his h boot. Seven n years after I had aske ed him where eI could buy re eplicas of the ese items, Neville N South hall was giving me m his actua al kit. So why, I hear h you ask k, the sense of trepidation prior to the e publicatio on of his autobiograph hy? Well, over the last fiftee en years, a few less-tha anfavourable stories s abou ut Southall have h appearred in the press s. Rather than being portrayed as the perfect fam mily man – the shy, down-to-earrth bloke who celebrated c winning the FA A Cup with his h wife, Eryl, and a daughte er, Samanth ha, instead of his team-ma ates – my hero has been made out to be a seriall womaniser, and a worrying w sto ory about him suing Sama antha in ord der to reclaim internationa al caps was run by The Sun in 200 07. His reputation had been tarnished and for som me elt really le et down. Words thatt I reason I fe thought werre synonymo ous with my hero, such as genuine, loy yal and depe endable, sud ddenly seemed to be antonyms of wha at he was re eally like. And how my mates m enjoy yed showin ng me the ese stories! Nonetheless, while w they were w appearing s, I could te ell myself th hat only in the newspapers these storiies were just j tabloid d tittle-tattle; however, iff they were e in his boo ok, well, th hat would confirrm that they y were true. Would I lea arn more aboutt him that I didn’t re eally want to know? The Binman n Chronicles is a brilliantt read. And in many ways Neville Southall is a brilliant ma an. Some people say you should only y judge othe ers by how they y treat you. If I do that,, then he’s not n only the gre eatest goalk keeper the world w has ev ver seen but allso the e greate est fellla. As I’’ve alrready state ed, Ne eville South hall replied to eve ery on ne of m my lettters when I wa as a kid and sta ayed behind a lon ng after summer socc cer school had fin nished to ch hat to me (an aw wkward tee enag ger at the tim me) and my m family. I’m sure he had better thin ngs to do with his time. Furthermore, F , these days s, he works as ed a teacher, helping h disafffected and disadvantag d youths on the t periphery of societty. As I well w know, having worked with simila ar individua als,
e working with this type of client grroup can be xtremely cha allenging. S So fair play. ex In n other ways s, Neville So outhall is an nything but a brrilliant man. The book confirms that he wasn’’t th he best of husbands h an nd that his relationship p with Samanth ha was, at ttimes, strain ned. At the e be eginning of this t article, I wrote that Everton and d go oalkeeping were w the on nly things th hat mattered d to o me in my youth. I th hen fell in lo ove, though, an nd am now w the very y proud fatther of two o be eautiful girls s, and the thought of missing key y moments m in their lives s fills with me dread. Whereas W my outlook on llife changed when I met my m wife and became a father, it would w appear th hat my hero’’s didn’t. In the book, Southall S says s th hat he hated d the close season and admits that fa amily holida ays and oth her non-foo otball events s were always something s o of a chore. Being totally y wrapped up in n the game, all he wante ed to do was s ge et back on to t the trainiing pitch and work hard d to o be the bes st goalkeepe er that he po ossibly could d be e – that the ere possibly y could be. By his own n ad dmission, he e was very selfish and sacrificed a lo ot. Allthough thiis single-m mindedness and steely y de etermination n probably explain why w Neville e So outhall ende ed up being the greatestt ever (and I ne ever ended up making it as a professiona al fo ootballer!), and a though iit’s pleasing to read that he e and his daughter now have a very close e re elationship (and that cerrtain events reported by y th he press we ere not as black and white w as we e were led to believe), I cannot help p feeling sad d when I read certain c sectio ons of his bo ook. Other parts of the book make me e feel really y ha appy and brring back so ome fantastic memories s. I started supp porting Everton seriously y when Colin n Harvey was in charge, and Southa all’s warmth h to owards this bluest of Blues com mes through h clearly. Nobo ody wanted u us to be more successfu ul th han Harvey did, d but, forr one reason n or anotherr, th hings just diidn’t work o out the way they should d ha ave done un nder his stew wardship. The T chapters s on n Southall’s formative ye ears, time in n non-league e fo ootball and rise to fame are really in nteresting, as s in ndeed are those t docum menting the end of his s gllittering care eer. And the Welshma an’s love for th his brilliant club c of ours iis evident throughout. Having read The Binman n Chronicles s, I now fee el as s though I know a great deal morre about my y he ero than I did, d but I’m m not sure I understand d hiim any bette er. Over the e years, Nev ville Southalll ha as taught me m a lot: he’’s taught me e Latin, how w to o make myse elf look big w when a strik ker is bearing g do own on goa al and where to position my walll when defending free kic cks on the edge of the e bo ox. He’s als so taught me that it’s great to have e he eroes and th hat dreams can come trrue, but that it’’s wrong to place p people e on pedesta als and judge e otthers, favourably or unfa avourably, without w really y kn nowing them m. Thanks fo or the educa ation, Nev.
match (my pride and joy), blue hat and scarf, and when I got home I found that some lovable kopite had actually stubbed a cigarette into my hood after he had seen me celebrating Sharp's goal, leaving a big gaping hole. Typical kopite behaviour - thanks mate, real tough guy. A learning point for the years that lay ahead. That incident didn't dampen my mood though. It was half term for me so I was out every day the following week, re-living every minute of that game, that goal. I came home early one day and caught my dad re-watching the game on Video as we had taped it - I bet he wasn't the only one. I am sure my mum still has the video of that game somewhere - now if only I had a Video Recorder!
See You At Euston My first Awayday was October 20th 1984. Graeme Sharp, 1-0 at Anfield. What a goal. What a performance. What a day. I was there. It doesn't get any better than that. I was 12 years old at the time and remember it as if it was yesterday. My dad had got us 3 tickets, one for him, one for me and one for my brother. We stood at the front, in the very right hand corner of the Kop. I had never been as excited about a game before. It was all a bit surreal at first, being surrounded by Reds and looking over at the left hand side, watching the heaving mass of Evertonians bouncing up and down, drowning out the drivel from the Kop. Then looking straight on at the packed, left hand corner of the Anfield Road end. I just took it all in, watching open mouthed in awe of the whole 'Awayday experience'. That song started just before kick-off and even at that age I hated it, despised it with a passion. The game itself went very quickly but I remember we were by far the better team, Bracewell and Reid were outstanding. After that performance I think Evertonians realised we had a team that was going to grab that league by the throat....and boy did we do it in some style. At the end of the game the gentleman that was Joe Fagan was quoted as saying 'It was a bloody good goal, worth winning any game. It would almost have been a shame for us to score after a goal like that." How times change. Compare his gracious remarks to the bitter and twisted vile that has been spewed out by the likes of Fat Rafa, Foulier, Brenda, Stevie G and Carra in more recent years. Anyway, I digress - as was the fashion at the time, I wore my luminous blue bubble coat to the
Home games weren't quite the same for me after that. I was obsessed by the whole Awayday experience. I wanted more. Fast forward 28 years and I still eagerly pick the fixtures up every June and start to plan my Awayday weekends. Everyone has their favourites for different reasons. High up on my list is Newcastle away. I love the way the ground is virtually in the City Centre. Newcastle is more like a huge village rather than a City, everything is so compact. I enjoy the night life and the atmosphere up there. I spent 3 great years there at Uni and when I go that ground I can just about see my old room from the away end. I'm hoping to go up there this coming New Years day to take my son Tom for his first away game. I can guarantee it won't be as good as my Awayday introduction but hey it's a start, we all like to put the Geordies in their place don't we? Big club? Don't think so. My favourite Awayday though is and always will be the London 'Awayday'. She may have her critics but I think London is a fantastic City, up there with the best in the world. You see every possible side of life down there in that London - the good, the bad and the downwright ugly. The Awayday starts with the train in the early hours of the morning, a couple of cans for breakfast, a look at the other fixtures in the papers, searching for that winning accumulator bet - one day perhaps! My job means I have to travel to London on a frequent basis. I get the Virgin train during the week and listen to the fat-bellied
corporate bores barking into their mobiles complete and utter garbage that doesn't actually mean anything - a bit like Brendan Rodgers on Channel 5. 'Helicopter view' anyone? Weekends travelling on the train to see Everton are so different though. The Wembley Arch comes into focus a couple of minutes before Euston. People start to drink up, coat on, time to go. Euston is always packed with football fans. I'm sure there is a lot of 'see you at Euston' arrangements amongst fans as people travel from all sorts of directions. There is always a good posse of Blues at Euston. You can spot them a mile off. You know what I mean. Different groups will then disperse to their favourite haunts. Mine is a hearty breakfast and a bit of bubble in Islington market, sets me up nicely for the session ahead. Once we have digested this then it's a look at the tube map and a quick decision on where we need to go. A couple of pre-match pints and then it's on to the game. The London aways are generally the best atmosphere, full of hard core Blues. Win, lose or draw the support the team gets down there is second to none. We always sell out down there, it's expected. After the game, it's back to the favoured haunts and a real good session with family and lifelong friends who all have that one special bond, one love in common - Everton Football club. The best Awayday down there is West Ham, real cockney east end, proper old school pubs by the ground, great atmosphere inside the stadium, a real edge to the day and a throwback to proper football. We have a decent record there as well. In recent years Saha and Yakubu have sent the away end rocking. The Millers Well pub is great beforehand, reasonable priced Wetherspoons pub, packed with Blues. The Central pub is a bit too 'tasty' for my liking, full of the lids, but each to their own. I went the infamous 'Blind Beggar' pub a few years back,
what a letdown, possibly the worst pub I've ever been in. Afterwards, the Duke of Edinburgh always has a few Blues enjoying the 5.30 game on ESPN, getting ready for the night of festivities in London Town. Fulham is my second favourite. A 'neutral' end behind the goal. A cracking idea but can you imagine that in the Park End? We have a terrible record down there as well. I always laugh to myself when I go to Craven Cottage, watching the rowers pounding up the Thames, families having picnics in the park next to the ground, it's almost like going to a Cricket match. Arsenal is also another good one, but couldn't be more different than West Ham. The Emirates is undoubtedly the best ground in the country, the Corporate's dream. The Borough of Higbury and Islington is very affluent in parts as well, total opposite of the Upton Park area. The atmosphere inside the Emirates can be quite muted but the actual ground itself is in a league of its own. Spurs is a strange one, great atmosphere but very hostile, no pub letting any away fans in anywhere by the ground. Chelsea was good in the 80s and early 90s but is a bit of a joke now, full of Sky fans who couldn't even spell Chelsea 15 years ago. I've rambled a bit in this piece but I hope that if you have kept with me then you can relate to some of this. If you have your own tales of away games, your own routines and favoured aways and you have the 'awayday' bug then come on here and share them. Plenty have and they always provide a great read. The Kharkiv trip I read recently was a masterpiece. If you haven't been bitten yet, then get out there and give it a go, get a gang of fellow Blues together and go and enjoy it, live it, embrace it.........see you at Euston? Phil Lynch
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Making The Grade - Stan Osborne We are very excited about this book. Stan Osborne, as older readers will know, has been a contributor to WSAG and I can still remember the day his first piece came. I was on the phone straight away to Phil: "You'll never guess? We've had a piece from a fella who used to be an Apprentice at Everton in the late 60s?" I heard his jaw drop, Tom and Jerry style. I think he then made me read it out to him there and then down the phone. After reading it and the pieces which followed we all thought there's a great book in this. And now there is. Stan himself says the book has been rattling round in his head for the past 40 years.
youngsters.
Stan says: "No-one, to my knowledge, had written a detailed account of what life was like for the ‘also-rans’ of football during that era. After reading the biographies and autobiographies of many of the stars of the game, I decided to sit down and write about the untold story of 99.9% of the kids who don’t make the grade as footballers in spite of their burgeoning talent as
"Most people will know a bloke at work who could have made it as a pro but got a serious injury or remember a world-beater they played with at school, who signed for a top club but was released because he was too small. Theirs is the story of most aspiring footballers, who fall at the first hurdle, then fade into obscurity never to be heard of again. "As an Evertonian, actually being with the club as an apprentice makes an indelible mark on you – writing about it during such a special time for the club brings it all back to life. Winning the 69/70 League Championship, rubbing shoulders with Kendall, Ball, Harvey, Labone, Catterick and the rest on one level and coping with the ‘upstairs, downstairs’ life as a youngster at the club contrasts vividly with the excesses of today’s Premier League elite. It is a wondrous tale. A remarkable tale in which elation rubs shoulders with heart-break as Stan pursues his dream of playing for his boyhood team. It's fascinating too, for as an Evertonian all the names are very familiar yet rarely glimpsed in this light. I know, for instance, that Harry Catterick was a strict disciplinarian but I've never read a first-hand account. Especially not one from a naked apprentice. And that's by no means the best story. There's plenty of them. All told with a warmth that makes this book a joy to read. I've read plenty of player biographies and more often than not you end up more cynical about the Club and liking the player a little less. Not here. Stan's tale, though ultimately one of disappointment, still manages to add shine to this great old club. It's a great book. One I would thoroughly recommend to all Evertonians. In fact, to any lovers of football. Stan says: "I hope all Evertonians will enjoy re-living one of the club’s pre-eminent achievements through the eyes of an apprentice, while feeling the hard knocks and smelling the embrocation as the youngsters struggle to make their mark in the beautiful game." They will, Stan. Believe me.
The book is available or will be shortly from all good bookshops (as they always say) for £10.99. You will also be able to pick up a copy from Everton One and Everton Two. If you're struggling try the publisher: Legends Publishing (www.legendspublishing.net) or 0780 361 1867 or david@legendspublishing.net
Emigrating Blues So ten games, four victories, five draws and one defeat. Fourth in the table, playing football that we can all get excited about and for once the future looks bright. The usual suspects of Baines and Pienaar are unstoppable most games and it's a pleasure to watch, Fellaini has started playing like a player we all dreamed he would become, Jagielka looks like a future captain and all in all we look like a team capable of a European finish. The one player who makes me happiest out of the current squad has to be Mirallas, pace, skill, direct play, knows where the goal is and more than anything he looks to be striking up a partnership with Coleman. Pienaar and Baines on the left, Mirallas and Coleman on the right? Job well done Moyes and Kenwright. Today the England squad has been announced and finally little Leon has finally been given a call up at the ripe old age of 31, although this is excellent to see such a consistent performer getting some recognition I cannot help but feel that it's a waste of a call up and should of gone to a younger star. This is one thing I have been moaning about for many years with England and deluded England fans who I talk too, stop selecting players for current matches and start building a team for the future. Spain and France have done so in the past and it's brought trophies and both have become football nations that produce stars for generations afterwards. Anyway enough on England, Fuckin' Everton aren't we. I have now emigrated to down south, Harrow in London to be precise so I have only been able to watch us on the box or the web. I feel like a kopite, which is what made me more determined to go to the QPR game. Loftus road, what a shithole. Being searched on the way in, not one steward offering a hand to find my seat despite me asking, finding my seat to be on the other side of the stairs to the main body of blues despite my seat number being 1, getting rained on for the entire match, having photographers sat/stood in front and having every fucking steward in the place entering and exiting using the gate in front of me. Fucking ridiculous, they can buy 12 players but cannot afford a roof that covers paying customers. A poor performance plus a stupid sending off and being rained on for 90 minutes had me questioning why I should pay ÂŁ40+ when
I can watch it on tv. Then I heard a fella turn to his young child who was moaning and the dad just simply replied "We're Evertonians son, we go the match it's what we do". Never again will I question going the match. I found myself in Slovenia for the derby which was a surreal experience. Not only because it was snowing outside and I was surrounded by Spurs fans but because it was the first derby I have ever watched abroad without my dad next to me to keep me calm and my emotions in check. Needless to say a few rude words were uttered watching that racist beaver perform and I feared the worst when them lot went 2-0 up, but couldn't help but feel gutted to only draw with them. When will the players and Moyes to a certain extent realise we have nothing to fear against them? In fact, against most teams. We can challenge and beat every team in the division when we perform, so it's frustrating to see anything other than an Everton win. We should of won against Newcastle but for a linesman and we should of lost against the redshite but for a linesman, things even themselves out and let's be honest we all love Gerrard running 80 yards for nothing. The tit. So after ten games I am optimistic about Europe and who knows we may even sneak in to the Champions League, the thought of European football back at Goodison is one that we all want and the club needs for the financial side of football. Am I the only one dreaming of Barcelona at Goodison and another Hibbert power free kick? Okay, maybe a little too optimistic. Onwards Evertonians. Joe Bartley
BRING ME THE HEAD OF PALOMA FAITH (or “The World used us as an excuse to go mad” – George Harrison.) After our blistering start to the season, the last month or so might be considered a lull but my God we have been extremely unlucky, and had the Gods favoured us we might well be topping the table. We should have battered them in the derby (not that any of us expected us to given past history) and might well have done so had Super Kev MkII stayed on the pitch (more of that later). Similarly at Fulham we managed to chuck away two points when Seamus Coleman suddenly imagined himself to be Diego Maradona and went on a slaloming run from the right into the centre of the pitch and into about 27 Fulham players, who easily dispossessed him to score their undeserved equaliser. Fortunately, if a little undeservedly ourselves, we put things right at Sunderland and got back to winning ways thanks to the Mighty ‘Fro and bit of luck. However, the highlight of the latter match for me was watching Jelavic sliding in and robbing the ball off the opposition before passing to a team-mate. Pure Everton that. We have also started winning matches from a losing position, something not seen since Radzinski or Rooney were leading the line. The fact we are allying the work ethic with the sumptuous School of Scientific football of yore, is a reason to be joyous and you can sense that Moyes realises that his current team is looking pretty special. Despite wincing as I have waited for the bubble to burst, we are still doing the business. Injuries and egos (Felli’s Dad) pending this could be a fantastic season to be an Evertonian, as we look at least the fourth best team in the league, having already beaten one of the teams above us and I cannot imagine Chelsea and City relishing the prospect of facing
WSAG Competition ‐ who is the bigger cunt?
the Blue hordes. The attacking mentality has been breathtaking at times, as if Moyes has decided the personnel at his command can cope with the style of football he now envisages us playing.
At the risk of sounding like a Redshite, we are a couple players short of a tremendous football team. Now if only we had the Welsh Xavi…
The Crucible by Arthur Miller Things in our Blue bubble might be fab and gear and all that lads/lids/lods/lodettes (delete as appropriate), but elsewhere in the world outside of L4 4EL, it’s all gone a bit Van der Meyde. Things we could rely on, are no longer that…well for want of a better word, reliable. Like Everton in the Walker, Kendall III, and Smith years, these are trying times. Lance Armstrong and Frankie Dettori have been exposed as junkies, the aforementioned ex Toffee Shandy Van Der Meyde has been exposed as a cunt, whilst Jimmy Savile just liked to expose himself in front of young children. Who woulda click clunked it? And of course, a moral panic has ensued with accusations being flung, and some being retracted. Operation Yew Tree has destroyed the innocence of my childhood once and for all. Who would honestly have guessed that the man responsible for making every child’s dream come true (not by fiddling with them I must point out, that has just been revealed), Sir Jimmy Savile would be an A1 nonce? Thinking back though, he looked exactly like the fella down the road from ours when I was about ten, who seemed very keen to join in our various sporting endeavours on the rec even though he was in his fifties. I vividly remember my Dad warning me to steer clear of him and me not understanding why. I thought it was because he wore sandals with socks. Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery It is with Beacon Cheeks that I also recall a primary school fancy dress competition that I won in a blonde wig whilst chomping on a real bona fide cigar (courtesy of my corner shop running Dad) and for some reason my go kart was a necessary prop also (clunk click I guess. Nice touch bastards). When I recently reminded my mother of this mentally (and lung) scarring piece of parental child abuse, her response was “You were better as Bobby Shaftoe”, which only confirmed why I have blocked out 99% of my childhood. For the uninitiated Bobby Shaftoe was a politician but the play/song was very nautical (ooh ducky) and Bobby had to do ‘that’ sailor dance and just generally mince about the stage.
So by the age of six years old, my parentally enforced acting ‘career’ consisted of a nonce and the most effete sailor in Christendom. Speaking of nonces, when did Pete Townshend get his pass out? No-one seems to mention his predilection for child porn, passed off as research because he was abused as a child. I once had a suppository shoved up my Wallasey Tunnel, but I never considered looking at pictures of the process on the internet. Revisionism is a Historical lie. Speaking of shite and rehabilitation, that brings me to the subject of Luis Suarez. The ‘negrito’ calling, imaginary card waving, diving, stamping, wife-beater wearing bucktoothed fuckwit has also been going through a period of rehabilitation in the media. His racism and wide ranging powers of cheating rarely get mentioned these days as we are told what a fabulous player he is. So fabulous in fact that he has been instrumental in their two massive wins against Norwich and Reading. Mirallas by most people’s reckoning was having a stormer against them in the derby before bugs-bunny stamped on his foot putting him out of the game for the second half. Meanwhile the raking (not raping, Mr. Ian McCulloch, we’ll leave that to Hicks and Gillett) of Sylvain Distin should have been an instant red. Some people have even applauded the humour of his comedy dive in front of David Moyes. I am with his daughter who suggested on Twitter that Luis was lucky not to be given a Kirkby kiss by her paternal guardian. So with all the controversy and confusion reigning across this sceptred isle, it was nice to hear the Prime Minister attempting to calm things down with a pearl of Tory wisdom. On being passed the now infamous Schofield List (soon to be made into a movie with Liam Neeson and Ben Kingsley) on highbrow televisual treat This Morning, David Cameron responded naturally by suggesting that nonces are homosexuals. Somehow this passed the majority of the media by who were out to get Schofield (Gordon the Gopher what’s the story there?), and even Peter Tatchell’s attack on the P.M. was mealy mouthed. Still, at least Dave didn’t call
a copper a pleb, ‘cos that’s like, dead serious. Once if I remember correctly, my life was a feast with hearts opened…” So, to conclude the world is fucked. And I blame the titular heroine of this piece and her ilk. Paloma Faith is a phoney. Likewise Amy Winehouse (Rest In Pernod) and of course Adele and her ‘Skyfow’-ing. Meanwhile the devoid of talent Cheryl Cole has ditched her Geordie singing voice for Beverley Hills and deems herself worthy of a single name, much like Prince or Elvis. Anyone of these no-marks who sing in a fake accent should be rounded up and beaten to within an inch of their lives with Jimmy Hendrix’s rotting phallus. The influence of these self important irritants means that most people these days are trying to be something they are not. What happened to genuine talent in this country? What happened to uniqueness and individuality? What happened to morals and hard work? What happened to ‘society’? This was summed up for me in one instance this week. I was about to park my car in a tight spot in town when the car in front, sporting an Analfield sticker naturally, reversed by a yard or so making it impossible for me to get in. In response, I pulled level with him and wound down my window asking politely “Why did you do that you daft red twat?. His response was “So it’s easier for me to get out”. “Well, as long as you are o.k.” was my restrained response. So for me, Everton (and that includes all of you) is still a thing of beauty and heartfelt solidarity in a country that has gone tragically, and frighteningly mad. Keep on Keeping On Peace and Love Pipecock Jackson III (Blazing in the Street End bogs)
Sh teg Shit ge eistt
w with
Sain nt Ve espa aluus
A An Everto onian’s Gu uide to a FFucking Ho orrible Wo orld
Scout: “Attticus; he wa as real nicee.” Atticus Finch: “ Mo ost people are, Scout –– when you u finally seee them. Apa art from kop pites, that psistic, full‐kit wearing g bellends – – every is. TThey’re belleends, Scoutt; sad, delussional, solip fucking g man‐Jack of them.” (H Harper Lee – ‘To Kill a Mockingbiird’) 1. Standin ng on the Shoulders S of Giants (being the ‘poor relation’ in a family of profess sional kopitte haters)
vicious versio on of the Co orleone family and more e in n keeping with w that fam mily’s spirit, rather than n th he flabby-ars sed Don thatt Michael had become.
Much as I’d d like it to be b good, the ere’s no oth her verdict on The T Godfather Part III other o than it’s shite. It’s not just Al A Pacino’s hair or Sofia Coppola’s original-Trac y Langton-s o style acting it’s everythiing. It’s fucking rubbish h. I’ve seen it sober, pisse ed and half--pissed. No good. It’s the Kendall Mk 3 of the Godfather trillogy. Not th hat Kendall Mk 2 was Godffather Part 2, 2 but you get g my drift in this poorly thought-outt analogy. The T only good thing in it is s Andy Garcia, a mo ore
Th his up and coming ruth hlessness in the face of o th he old guard d is the sam me with my family. Mind d yo ou, it’s not just j the younger crew; it’s the older on nes as well. And mos st of the Evertonians I kn now come to o think of itt. Though I’v ve got every y re eason to ha ate the bas stards, I find that I’m m merely m the Se ergeant Wils son of Dad’s s Army when n it comes to despising our doubly incontinent friends from over the p park, compared to the e fa anatical Spanish inquisittion of my once–equals o s.
Me: “I say, you kopite fellows: would w you mind awfullly not believing th hat your rather shabbby football team m’s past achievemen nts are your own??”
They get up in the t morniing just to hate and a bait them m, where eas I like to think that I go out o of my w way (admiittedly, n not very far) to find reasons why the t a average/belo ow average kopite es on as it carrie does.
I love the co ontrol of iron ny and lang guage use in n th his Faceboo ok exchange e and the completely y ru ubbish, po-fa aced reply frrom his redn nose chum:
There’s to oo much material at the moment for most of my family – ‘Being Liverpool’; Cocknose; them being g shite / Everton being good; G-lar’s Stevie humiliating post-‘goal’ slide into ob blivion; the world and his wife hating donk key boy / Suarez; mole rat King everything Brenny sa ays; the Them: “We fou und him in his fu ull-kit. dubious fo ormer DJ Sitting in his Parker P Knoll. With Wi six wearing TH HAT Crown satsumas and a can of dandelioon and Paints shirt and so on burdock.”Th he ritual humiliattion of an armchair red. and so forrth. It’s a pity that there’s t no kopite boyfrriend in the family anymore becau use their urge to feed grow ws stronger every e day and can only turn in on its s self in the absence off a predator or victim. 2 And While We’re At I It – My Motther
Suarez practicess THAT dive at home. h “Absolutely ly sensational!” says s the BBC’s highly-paid, highlly-impartial punddit Alan Hansen
My nephew was stuck in New Yo ork during the t recent hurriicane (would dn’t it have been ironic c if you’d have ended up in n a wheelcha air after being caught in th he path of Hurricane Sandy?) but was w still finding it in his heart to point out o the failin ngs of our tithea ad cousins:
Sh he’s no spring chicken as you can imagine and d ha as been a pensioner ffor many years now. I re emember at one time s she was a nominal n red, ha aving had a soft spot ffor her youn nger brother Biilly who’d become a L Liverpudlian to either be e diifferent (“W Why, oh why y didn’t you u become a ho omosexual, Bill?*” her la arge family opined) o or to o re ebel againstt his dad. B Billy became e a rednose e when they were really sh hite and no ot the pale im mitation of sh hiteness yo ou see to oday. No matter m – as tim me went on n, my ma Stranded at tthe Drive-In: ‘Hu urricane’ Sandy be ecame Richardson ©The Obbscure Gag Company, Penketh more m and more m brainwashed/infectted/blessed by having us living in n he er house an nd became a blue. Esse entially she’s s
someone’s ma, so she’s never really been to the match per se, but she obviously takes an interest in her kids. When I call or see her, there’s not a great deal for us to talk about, so football becomes our lingua franca/social glue. It usually takes the form of “Are you still going the match?”“They’re rubbish/good aren’t they?” and it’s quite a nice experience to be someone’s seven year old son again. We go through the usual social niceties and I have to work out the parameters of what we she’ll be able to fathom from the usual conversational bollocks that interest me. There are rarely surprises but every so often she will surprise me and I’ll know that the other evil fuckers from my family have been venting their anti-kopite spleen on this venerable old lady. Just before the Redshite/Chelsea final this year, we had the following conversation: Mother: Are you watching the match on Saturday, Saint? Me: No – no interest. Mother: Don’t you hope they get beat? Me: Of course. Mother: Wouldn’t it be funny if ‘Ladyboy’ scored against them? They’d all be throwing themselves through the windows up Breck Road! I still have no idea what the second part of that comment means, but it’s a beautiful picture – all of these comedy kopites being ejected from their armchairs and flying through plate glass windowsas if The George and The Lutine Bell were giant, screffy versions of James Bond’s Aston Martin. But where she got ‘Ladyboy’ from, I don’t know. Like an innocent child who picks up dirty words after his first foray into a schoolplayground, I can
over one of her garden gnomes with his/her ‘private part’. Maybe I’ve just been a patronising bastard all these years and I’m doing her a disservice. You know, maybe, just maybe, me arl girl is completely au fait with the whole ‘chicks with dicks’ scene. I mean, she’s got Sky HD and a mobile phone these days. *”Where have all the cocks gone, Bill?” 3. And While We’re At It (2) When I was five years old, my mother charged our Ginger Bastard with the task of taking me to All Saints Infants’ School as she was working that day. It was only my third day of school and I was still very nervous, being one of those ‘late summer’ children who are tinier and more childlike than their September-born compatriots. Ginger brought me there late but reassured me that he would sort it out with the reception-class teacher. “What’s his name?” asked my thirteen year old older brother. “Mr Ryber,” I hesitantly replied. “Off you go then,” he said, ushering me towards the classroom with a gentle, paternal manner that belied his age. As I made my way to the open door, Ginger let out an almighty roar that could be heard by all inside the room: “RYBER
IS
A
BASTARD!”
My youngest son thinks that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard but I still have bad dreams that I’ll get into trouble for it. Ginger can be found in the Top Balcony or the Lower Gwladys during home match times, or the svelte, bohemian watering hole that is The Thomas Frost immediately afterwards. If anyone wants to fill him in, like.
My ageing mother recently: “Would you like a cup of tea, son? Do you reckon the mole rat wears a cock ring? [comedy pause] As a hat?”
only assume she picked up such language from some of the more politically-unsound members of my family. I’m sure she wouldn’t know a ladyboy if one fell out of a tree in her garden and knocked
4. Alan Hansen The recent scandals at the BBC tell you all you need to know about the really shitty side of that corporation. From the vast pay-offs to fat-cat
fuckwits like Entwistle to the obscene salaries paid to its variety show ‘talent’ like Forsyth and Ross, you can see why anybody with a tiny degree of perspicacity would feel a bit aggrieved about forking out a not inconsiderable sum as a licence fee every year. “But it’s only 70p a day?” they say – so fucking what? If it were run properly, it wouldn’t be 70p a day. As someone who’s had a few dealings with them over the years, it’s rare that I’ve left their studios without the sense that there’s something a bit ‘rum’ there. The lack of any regional accent gives off a ‘jobs for the boys’/”Oh look who got the internship?” whiff of something dodgy, and the seeming operation of a job-for-life arrangement that exists in BBC sport really wrecks my effing swede. No wonder my beloved, huge-breasted Ranvir fucked off to ITV.
it because Shearer now looks and acts like an old-fashioned ventriloquist’s dummy that’s been left in acellar (and has had all of its hair eaten by rats) that makes him seem so ridiculous? Or is it just the lowIQ shite he spouts, week after week?
“…and so a said to Keith Gillespie if you don’t show us where Jody’s is, I’ll kick your fuckin’ head in….”
But Alan ‘He Looks Like a Drunken Vampire’ Hansen (I’ve a feeling that’s from Billy Butler; dear God, no!) is evidently so good that he now gravitates between Lineker’s programme and the genuinely good (but phony Kopite) Colin Murray’s ‘Match of the Day 2’. (I’m already regretting writing that, by the way). But now that Everton are doing well, Hansen’s patronising little pats on the head are gone and it‘s time to invest some love back into the shambolic helmets from over the park.
I mean, John Motson…..I know he did the History of Everton video so there’s some vestigial affection for the ageing saddo, but did you ever think: “Oh good – John Motson’s commentating!” Admittedly that’s an unlikely scenario to say about any commentator, but do you remember him ever saying anything funny or interesting in the 40 years he’s been at the fucking ‘Beeb’? He’s still there, though. There are loads of them – Sue Barker, Inverdale and worst of all Peter fucking Allis, but none of them grind my gears as much as Hansen. Like the others mentioned, he has no sense of humour, but unlike the others he seems to believe that he does. He’s done 20 years of increasingly awful, gaffestrewn punditry and his awfulness culminated with him talking about “the coloured players” on a particularly hideous Match of the Day. Would you have been kept on at your job if you’d have used such a retrograde, 1970s South Africa, offensive racist term in the workplace? But no. Hansen’s part of the furniture along with jug ears (who’s often OK, to give him his due) and Alan ‘fucking’ Shearer. Who’s never OK in any way, shape or form. And what is it about Shearer’s baldness that really pisses me off? Nobody gives a flying fuck about men going bald these days (do they?) – is
“Sensational!! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it an East African molerat? No it’s Super Racist!” Great things in this pic: (1) old-fashioned two finger ‘upsies’; (2) classic ‘wanker’ gestures; (3) That dude in the shades
Now when the mole rat/sewer rat/donkey boy deliberately injured two of his fellow professionals in the derby, did wanker Hansen point out that the footballer with a very unsavoury history (euphemism of the year) should have been sent off? Did he suggest that he should have been vilified fortrying to stop two young men from earning their weekly crusts? Did he fuck. And when the nasty little knobhead performed his desperately unfunny, planned-in-advancelike-some-sort-of-footballing-Colin-Hunt dive in front of Moyes, did Hansen say “That sort of incitement is dangerous in a match like this, and besides being shit, should have warranted at least a yellow card”? Again: did he fuck.
And WHAT DID the Clackmannanshire Southport beach willy flasher say about Suarez’s dive? “That’s sensational!”, that’s what. Like Motson, what sort of pleasure does Hansen’s continual drivel engender? Fuck all. The only time ‘Hansen’ has made me laugh is thinking about the look on Family Guy’s resident pervert Glen Quagmire’s face when he’s told that Taylor Hansen(the ‘chick’ he’s obviously been wanking himself off round the clock to), is in fact a ‘guy’. Mind you, in Hansen’s defence, you have to admit we’ve all been there. It was years before someone got round to telling me that wizened, cold-hearted TV chef Fanny Cradock was in fact, a fellow. I remember my beacon cheeks and the huge inferno of tissues from under my bed lighting up the L6 sky and for miles around, such was my self-polluting shame when I found out that ‘Fanny’ was in fact Frank Cradock, a ‘Toon’supporting ex-squaddie who’d poshed-up, made good and had a reverse strapodictomy at Stoke Mandeville:
Where to start? ITV’s a good place, obviously. John ‘Shit Bastard’ Stapleton has enjoyed a 37 year career on TV – from ‘Nationwide’ to ‘Daybreak’ armed only with a talent for being bad-tempered and for being the progenitor of Alan Partridge. Similarly, the only other one to survive the Chiles/that Irish woman cull from GMTV was Kate Garraway – a pair of tits on a stick who manages to be stupid, unpleasant and the possessor of the sort of top-flight speech impediment that’s guaranteed to keep you in a job forever these days: “…it’s the thorm that they’re calling a ‘Frankenthorm’. Only the Americans could name it that! But you know, if you think about it, IT REALLY IS A FRANKENTHORM!”
The late ‘Ms’ Cradock with useless, stupidly-bald TV pundit Alan Shearer. “Me and tha lads once went on a cookery course at Jody’s in Stanley Street – we ended up with doughnuts like Fanny’s!” quipped Al, 43.
5 Early Morning Mental Illness I’ve always had the wrong bodyclock for work. I don’t get much sleep at the best of times, but having to do a full day’s work after three hours sleep is a pain in the arse most of the time and I know that when I wake up for the first hour or so it’s like I’m mentally ill or suffering from an IQ as low as that of ‘Aldo’ Aldridge, ‘Pinocchio’ Thommo or ‘Baldy Balls’ Al Shearer.
For fuck’s sake. Luckily, you can flick over to BBC and if the Northwest news is on, it’s difficult to get out of the house without bursting a hole in your slacks if this vision of loveliness enters the frame: So it’s back to ITV and there’s Donny Osmond and the fucking Hairy Angel doing their level best to make me projectile vomit the meagre breakfast I’m allowed to stop me becoming an even fatter bastard than I already am:
In the old days, a massive session was followed by sleeping for as long as it took to get rid of a hangover, and so I never actually realised that this was a joke: Early morning TV helps and hinders. It helps because it’s so shit that it gets me angry and wakes me up momentarily; and hinders because it’s so shit that it gets me angry and leaves me more depressed than before.
Donny: It’s not just that you’re like someone who’d get barred out of Coopers, Hairy Angel; you’re not a very good singer either are you? The Hairy Angel: nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn Donny: Have you just shat the couch?
So you swittch to 501, and a there he is, The King of the Cunts s, Eamon ‘Bu unter’ Holme es.
Eamon Holmees: fat cunt with a lob-on
Yes, Eamonn basta ard cunting Holmes - 25 years of being a knobhea ad and being paid for it. I’ve hatted him ev ver since the t voluminous, phony Manches ster Unitted supporting bellend was on some varie ety program mme making out of date Everton gags when Mike Walker’s s team made that terrrible start to
th he ghastly “h half of them m are Catholic, half of th hem are Prrotestant; s some suppo ort Everton, n, so ome suppo ort Liverpo ool!’ Ken Jones/Sheila a Fa ay/ Cheggerrs shite fest. There’s literally nothing g th here. Fuck alll on the entire World Wiide Web! Th here is howe ever lots of p pics of obscu ure Canadian n 70 0s rockers ‘The Wackerrs’, and as you can see e from their pic c and their p personnel, th hey look and d so ound not un nlike their 7 70s kopite equivalents e de esperately looking rou und for a pub with a wooden-cased d 26” colour TV to watch their be eloved redsh hite on ‘The Kick Off Ma atch’ because e th hey couldn’t get tickets s for the hig ghlights. For Bo ob, Kootch,, Randy and Eric, re ead: Macca, Th hommo, Smigger and Macca again.
the season back b in 1994 4. I caught ‘Cunter’ re ecently on Sky New ws. Apparently it was only the aestheticallypleasingTimes Square that was being hit by Hurricane Sandy. S Som me terrible reporter was w pretending to t be a hero in the milld rainfall th hat was hitting Manhattan at that mom ment, but she was still ha aving to endure Wanke er’s appallin ng, studio-based d badinage. Fat arse ta alks all ove er the reporter and te ells us/her that all Broadwa ay productio ons have been cancelled and a that film-making g had been suspended from the streets s of Manhattan. M H He then starts laughing un ncontrollably y and says to the reporterr:
*w whoops forg got, Second worst. ‘Brea ad’ is always s th he worst. An nd also the n name of a sh hit 70s band, off course. 7
“Hahahahah hahahaha – never….haha ahah…..gues ss what they’ve t filming over the p past days…..hahh hahahaha…..
you u’ll been fe ew
Culture Section S (1)
Ciinderella at The T Empire. Can you see something g wrong with th he following statement?
There is a massively uncomforta able time la ag, before she is forced tto say: “ I don’t kno ow. What?” “It’s…..haha ahahaha!” says the wo orld’s numb ber one political anchorman…NOAH’S AR RK!” I haven’t go ot a telly now w. Thanks, Cun nter.
6 The Wac ckers
8 Culture Section(2): S The Tea Sttreet Band att Kazimier (October 5th 2012)
I’ve skimm med and sc canned the internet for f pictures of The Wackerrs (fuck kno ows why), the t worst Liverp pool-based sitcom s there’s ever been n*, and I’m talking serious s competitio on here – The T Liver Birds,, Help!The Brothers McGregor, M T The Three Enve elopes of Brrendan and many, many more, but there t is literrally nothing g to show th hat
It’s taken me years to do o it, but I fin nally made it – the oldest person at a gig. Can’’t remember what the occa asion was ca alled, but I’d d intended to o se ee Tea Stre eet at some e stage. Butt then again n th here was no way I was staying unttil 12 o’clock k (tthere was ale to be had elsewhere),, so I stayed d
10b Credit Where It’s Due (and yet another reason to keep the sectarians out of the Premier League)
to see the debut of the excellent Night Class and fucked off just as some ageing baldy was coming through the door and who would have spoiled my main objective. 9 Culture Section 3 (November 10th 2012) ‘Steptoe and Son’ at The Playhouse
Say what you like about kopites (and I do), you’ll never ever see them do anything as appalling as this be-hooped, bigoted wanker. Me - straight out from work; I still looked the dog’s bols in my suit and tie. (No lob-on detected)
Harold was played by a 28 stone 30 year old; Albert was played by a 50 year old weirdo. Both had Cornish accents. It was linked by a guiding female spirit and there were Pennies from Heaven song and dance routines throughout. It sounds fucking awful, but was just great. I kept thinking of Kenny and Brenny all the way through. I was sitting in the front row and the young lady spirit decided to whip her drawers down and show me (and just me) her bare arse. Just fabulous, and (I would imagine) much, much better than Pauline Daniels and Pete Price at The Empire. 10a Shanks Has Escaped! (Edinburgh Oct 2012)
Picture taken from an LFC fan’s Facebook page. A decent lad. 11 Brenny Played Guitar Anyway, back to business. Have to say that I had to look up the ‘blobfish’ that certain Toffees are using as the Liverpool FC wunderkind’s new soubriquet. I nearly shat myself when I saw that it actually exists. When I did look at the picture, though, it reminded me of sad 80s cartoon strip character ‘Ziggy’, and therefore, by the same token Mr Brendan Rogers Esq: It’s remarkable, isn’it? The same flattened cock proboscis and the same give-nothingaway, blank canvas kite. And no kecks. No sign of eye-liner, either. The main difference between Ziggy and Brenny is that Ziggy was extremely self-aware: there were no envelopes nor any highly dubious touchy-feely dressing room ‘bonding’ from this baldy wee bastard, no siree Bob. Oh, and well done, Channel 5 – in an age where even the daftest cunt is prepared to go to the cinema to watch a polemical, political or
iconoclastic documentary (Bowling For Columbine, Senna, Supersize Me, Searching for Sugar Man - as obvious examples), it’s good to see a major terrestrial channel showing ‘Being Liverpool’ a six hour corporate advert/PR puffpiece masquerading as fact. Brendan’s guy-liner apart, there was absolutely nothing of sporting interest (I saw one and a half episodes) and I’m glad to see that the general consensus amongst media and non-media folks alike is that the whole thing was an immense and embarrassing, steaming heap of shit.
Off to Shrewsbury v Crewe in a while – a mighty woolfest of titanic proportions. I hope the fans dress and behave with decorum. You wouldn’t want to look, dress or act like a tit at the match, would you….. 12 Kopite of the Month
11 Wools – a Warning from History The Dead End Kids – the woollest group in the history of the known universe. The Birmo’s, the feather cuts, the scarves on wrists, the grandad shirts and the fanny parts marked these bad boys out as the faces of the Wool Movement. You cut these guys and they’d bleed denim . I’d bet they even had denim undies. But now that people’s clothing is largely ubiquitous thanks to the giant chain stores and the internet, I kind of miss the Wool ethic. It’s a bit like Bart Simpson getting uppity because the town adopt his catchphrases and rebellious mode – it’s difficult to find an identity when there’s nothing to rail against in a world where everyone looks and acts the same. Small towns are great, though. I’m currently looking out on Shrewsbury town centre and it’s good to see that the Puffa jacket and hair with chevrons shaved into the swede haven’ t disappeared forever.
I love this pic – it’s everything that’s wrong with them. Look at Fist of Fury here – caught in a sprinkler malfunction at the Newcastle game. It’s Mr Angry’s right not to be soaked at the match, but the idea of moving for a minute or so never entered his ‘I bet it’s dem bitter blue bastards’ brain. God moves in mysterious ways and I don’t know why he wanted to soak his chosen people. One thing’s for sure: those crazy kopites really are….. (looks at a camera and winks)….
a shower of bastards! (Applause, music, titles)
The Everton Encyclopedia by James Corbett Frankly if this book isn't in your Christmas stocking then nobody loves you. This is the be‐all and end‐all Everton reference book. A momentous achieve‐ ment by James who says it's taken him half of his life to produce. It shows. The love and attention to detail is incredible. 652 pages, 400 photos ‐ many unseen even by Redmond and he's got every Everton book there is. Seriously we can't do it justice here. Go into Waterstones and spend an afternoon flicking through it. It is pricey at £35 (cheaper on Amazon) but it's brilliant. Buy it yourself or start dropping hints right away.
used to spout. It didn’t take me long to perfect the art of looking bored out of my skull, whilst on the inside, being slightly envious of the twats. (Who says I’m bitter and twisted?) I’d never been further than Belgium and Holland, so this made me more determined to add Madrid as another notch on my dwarf like European bedpost.
“I’VE GOT A CUNNING PLAN” REAL MADRID AWAY AUGUST 26 1987. The summer of 87 was a great time to be an Evertonian.We’d just won the title and we were looking forward to the next season with a spring in our step and a smirk on our face. To top it all off the club announced that we had been invited by Real Madrid to play them at the Bernebau, to celebrate some sort of centenary. They had requested us because we were the current English champions. and the game would take place on the last Wednesday in August. I was really buzzin when I heard the news, and although I was a bit skint, straight away I said to meslf “I’m goin”. Due to ‘circumstances beyond our control’ we had been denied any European adventures for the last two years, but it seemed like our friends at UEFA had surprisingly sanctioned this game and given us the green light. I was 26 at the time, and gaggin to watch the lads in Madrid. I’d been on a few jaunts since 1979, but, because of the two year exile, I was hungry for more. The other reason pushing me to go, was the fact that UEFA had not decided how long the ban would be in place for. This could have been our last chance for a while. Ever since my very few red nose mates had been working, and earning enough to go to Europe, I’ve had to endure lurid tales of rape and pillage from various corners of our continent. Every time these smarmy cunts went away, I used to dread the next time we went for a bevvie.They would come home telling anyone within listening distance, that it had been the best yet, and they were the fashion kings of English football and all the rest of the shite they
Because of the ban, and the fact that we had a side who could give Real a good game, I thought we wouldn’t have any problems gettin lads to go. It wasn’t just a case of texting your mates, back in those days we were still using carrier pigeon’s and smoke signals. Surprisingly, after gettin in touch with the regulars, I was the only one up for it. I didn’t fancy going solo so I delayed booking anything for a few days, hoping that a knight in shining armour would get in touch on the footy grapevine. And my patience paid off, although the lad was more like Baldrick than a swashbuckling swordsman, at least I had a travelling companion. He was a quiet lad who was a year younger than me and was a friend of my brother. For legal reasons I better not name him, but he had a surname that instantly gave him the nickname, clever-clogs. He was a good blue who went to all the home games, and still does, plus a couple of aways as well. To back up the Baldrick connection he told me he also had a cunning plan. He didn’t want to say much over the phone so we agreed to meet in a boozer close to a travel agent the next day. All night, I was tossin and turnin, (no jokes please), wondering what he was going to tell me. He was a bit of a straight head, so I wasn’t expecting anything too dodgy. I arrived early and sat at the table in the corner, trying hard not to look like a spy involved in some kind of espionage. Staring down at my pint and avoiding eye contact with the other drinkers. I’d only had a couple of slurps before he turned up, got a drink, and scuttled over to me. Speaking quietly and leaning forward, hunched over the lager, he began to unravel his master plan. Anyone watching us, would have known we were up to no good. He worked in a camera shop and knew of an insurance scam that would fund our trip. We had to get cover before we left and make sure that we reported a theft to the local police in Spain to get a crime number. He could provide a receipt for a snazzy Panasonic that was gonna get
nicked, then we put in a claim when we get home. I was a bit shocked that he had come up with such a dodgy idea, but it all seemed so easy and I was convinced within seconds. We finished our drink, and bounced over the road to lash the cash. Things were a little bit different in the mid eighties when it came to sorting a euro trip. Not every home could boast a landline, never mind a mobile, and the nearest we had to the internet were the glossy brochures produced by the airlines. In these shameless mags, it wasn’t the models in the photo’s getting the air-brush treatment, it was the hotel. The only two options we had were to phone up the travel agents, or go into the shop. This was a time before the no frills revolution, and the only way we could fly to Spain cheaply, was to book on a ‘sunshine’ flight. They were for a seven or fourteen night’s duration, but with no accommodation. Typically, these deals would appear about a month before travel at £99, dropping down a tenner a week till sold. The price of return flights to Madrid would have cost us £165, so it was a no brainer really. With a limited choice on offer, it boiled down to either Alicante or Malaga. We chose the latter purely because it landed seven hours earlier on the Tuesday, giving us more time to sort a gaff and train tickets to Madrid for next day. We paid £79 each, for flights from Manchester. We were not due to return till two weeks later, but we had no intention whatsoever of staying that long. Next stop was the post office to sort out our ‘sponsorship funds’. After we filled in an easy questionnaire, they agreed to cover us for a two week period. We walked out straight faced, but as soon as we turned the corner, we both broke into big grins. The spadework was finished, and the footings were in place. I wasn’t due to see Clever –clogs till we flew, and in the next few days I started to wonder what type of travel companion he would turn out to be. You don’t really get to know someone till they escape from their misses for a couple of days. Ever since I’ve been goin abroad, I’ve known lads who are introvert and placid at home, turn into complete nutjobs as soon as they land on foreign soil. These changes in personality must happen somewhere between take off and landing, and over the years I’ve bumped into a vast array of shady characters. Obviously, I’ve met loads of minge bags and moaning bastards. You could also include the kick off merchants, who always get involved in grief and then expect you to dig them out. But the worse ones are the smelly twats who are allergic to soap. We call these lads
Billy after the kid in ‘KES’ who says he’s had shower even though nobody seen him or heard him. We got a lift to the airport in plenty of time for our 15-00 flight, booked in, had a bevvie, and it was going well as we headed down to the departure gate. Then, in the waiting area, cleverclogs had the misfortune to make eye contact with a lad who looked like a cross between Timmy Mallet and Jimmy Savile’s long lost son. You know the type I mean, highlights, no socks, and more gold than a chav granny. Before we had a chance to avert our eyes, the beaut was over introducing himself. His name was Dan, and he was from Winsford. He was sad and single and had booked a last minute seven day break to cheer himself up. His mate was a dj in Benalmadena, and he’d been over a few times to visit him. We realised that he could be a help to us, and as we had no gaff, we decided to travel with him down the coast. We landed on time, breezed through passport control and jumped in a taxi, (little did I know that 25 years later I’d be making the same trip) and after only 20 mins we arrived at his apartment reception. Once he had booked in, we enquired about the train for Wednesday morning. It left Malaga at nine ish and reached Madrid just after three. We would have to be up pretty handy in time to get to Malaga station. We had a quick shower and change and went straight out to explore the local nightlife. Dan had warned us that there wasn’t a multitude of bars and clubs to satisfy our desires, but he was sure there’d be enough. And he was right, there was several watering holes dotted about the town centre. After a little cruise around the bars, we ended up where his mate was workin. It was a decent night, and we stumbled back to his gaff about 3 ish.The next thing I remember is being shaken by some bloke gibbering in Spanish, we had fallen asleep on a couple of couches in the foyer and this fella wasn’t too happy. He wanted
us out of the place immediately, but we managed to calm him down and he let us get our bags and say goodbye to our new friend. ‘Disco Dan’ had actually turned out ok and been dead helpful to us. Thank fuck mobiles weren’t about then, because I would have shit myself if he had asked for my number so he could come to ours for a night out. The manager wouldn’t let us have a shower, and we got in the taxi stinking like a pair of ‘Billy’s’. The train was a big disappointment. Even though we were travelling more than 300 miles, it had carriages like the Limey to Blackpool route, rather than the plush intercity interior. It was also fuckin roastin, which meant a long, hot, smelly journey. I just wanted to fall asleep and wake up in the capital, and luckily got me head down easily. I woke up a couple of times, and each time the view was very similar, it was a dry, dusty, barren land that looked exactly like a spaghetti western landscape. As soon as we arrived in Madrid, we went to tourist info to find a room. They gave us the address of a small hotel near the stadium and phoned ahead to tell them we were on our way. By this time, all we were interested in was gettin a clean, and after booking in, he won the race for a long awaited shower. Within an hour we were both sparkling clean and ready to watch the lads spank Real in their own backyard. On our way out, the receptionist told us that two more blues were stayin in the room next door to us. They had booked in that morning and went out earlier. It was a pay on the day game, so we decided to take a slow stroll up to the ground which was only 400 yards away. It was still dead hot, and as we rounded the first corner, the magnificent bernabau came into our view. I love Goodison and never want us to move away, but this was on a different level. The nearer we got, the
better it looked. It was huge and almost blinding, with the sun’s reflection making it more like a cathedral. At the box office, they mumbled something about English fans, and sold us tickets for their equivalent of the Top Balcony. By now, we were gaggin for a drink and some munch and the neighbouring area was populated by more restaurants than bars. The lure of a nice bit of scoff was too much too resist and we sat down at a pavement table, ready for a feast and a few beers. There was a nice chilled atmosphere, and once we had been fed and watered, we spent a lazy early evening watching the world go by (perving). Even though we were sat there for more than two hours, we didn’t see many blues knockin about, and it seemed like not many had bothered to travel. On our way to the match, we bumped into Howard Kendall waitin at a zebra crossing. He was dead sound with us, stopping for a yap and a shake of hands. The poor turnout was confirmed once we took our place up near the clouds, in the triple decker stand. After a quick suss, and a few nods of heads, I reckon we had about 200 tops. To this day, I’ve never heard a valid reason why so few fans went, but obviously, the vast majority didn’t share my optimism. The inside of the stadium was just as impressive as the outside, with room for 90 odd thousand and big video screens at either end. We were at the side, as high up as possible, and although most areas were under cover, we only had a small roof at the back. As it was only a friendly, it was never gonna be a sell out, but still looked about 3/4 full. Neither of us had ever expected to see the Blues at a ground like this, and as we waited for the team news we were like two kids on Chrimbo mornin. Theirs flashed up on the big screen first, and was a strong line up including Michel, Butragueno, and Hugo Sanchez. When our first eleven appeared, it looked more like the reserves. If we had played our best team, I thought we had a bit of a chance, but with a midfield including Pointon and Adams, and Bobby Mimms in goal I knew we were gonna get twatted. The fact that Ian Marshall was up front on his own just confirmed it. All of us felt let down and angry. If I had been at home, I would have watched this game from behind the couch. Every fan will know what I mean when I say this, but there are the odd games when you think your gonna get tonked and you can
sneak a good result. So as we kicked off, I was prayin that this would be one of them. We managed to hold out for a whole 14 minutes, and then they just demolished us. After some mesmerising passing from Real, we found ourselves lucky to be only 4-0 down before half an hour had gone. There was no proper segregation in our block, and the Madrid fans were sort of in with us. As they were giving us a good walloping, they were in a friendly mood, and spent most of the game sniggering at us. We cringed with embarrassment every time they scored, and when the fourth went in, me and Clever clogs looked at each other and didn’t have to speak to know what we were both thinkin. ’Fuckin ell, their gonna score ten’. Luckily for us, they eased off a bit till half time, and we were still only four down. We started the second half a bit better, and the comeback was on when Paul Power scored on the hour to make it 4-1.This only served as a wakeup call to them, and after two quick strikes it was 6-1,with 24 very long minutes still to go. The nightmare 10 was alive and kickin. How the fuck we didn’t concede again, I will never know, but we managed to keep them out with a mixture of good luck and bad finishing. A nano second after the final whistle blew; the players disappeared down the tunnel, leaving us lot standing their totally demoralised. This had been our chance to show the rest of Europe what they had been missing in the last two years and we got shafted fuckin big style by the team selection. We trudged down the steps and looked for a bar to drown our sorrows. Us two and four other blues settled down in a pizza parlour full of their fans, and had to endure more piss taking. Our table was quiet and looking very sheepish, and we just had to sit there and take it. A few beers sorted us out, and an hour later we were startin to liven up a bit after dissecting the performance and our various exploits gettin to Spain. At kickin out time, we moved to the one bar that we could find open to finish off the round, and stayed till last orders. By our usual standards, we’d had a quiet one, and after the habitual hugs and handshakes, got to our room about half three. It had been a sapping day and a half, and as we had no idea when we’d next get a proper kip, we both needed a solid eight hours. I was just about in the land of nod, when I thought I heard a knockin on the window and a familiar accent shout, “Eh lads, lerruz in”. Cos we were on the first floor, I took no notice and rolled over. Then it happened again. Me ead was battered and I didn’t know what was goin on. Either the San Miguel was stronger than I thought, or Spiderman was an Evertonian. Clever-clogs was up first, and when he opened the curtains, we could see this scally hanging onto the drainpipe by his fingertips. We dragged him in, and the lad told us his mates were next door. He couldn’t get
past reception and this had been his only way to sneak in. After the promise of a bevvie each, next time we met, he went tiptoeing down the corridor. We went back to sleep, dreaming about our rail journey in the afternoon sun. With no brekky on offer at our digs, we decided to have it on the train, and popped into a corner shop for supplies before we left Madrid. Our experience from the previous day would probably be repeated, so we knew exactly what to buy. Although we had a little bit of business to sort out in the south, we took to our seats with a right little picnic. The six hour trip gave us plenty of time to perfect our yarn, and between a few cans and one or two Danish pastries, we managed to agree on a simple script. We were goin to say that we had money and a camera stolen from our bags on the beach, when we went for a quick paddle. Luckily for us, the thieves had left our passports and plane tickets, so at least we had the most important items to get us home. Our funds were gettin low when we arrived back in Malaga, so it was local transport instead of taxis from now on. We hopped on a bus outside the station, and within an hour we were at the front desk of the cop shop in Benalmadena. The bizzie logging our crime didn’t seem arsed and almost looked bored as he filed the report. He had obviously written out hundreds of these and barely asked us for any details before handing over the all important crime number. Clever clogs pocketed the document, and we made our way to the airport. At the airline’s enquiry counter we explained what had happened, and asked if they could find us seats on a plane back home. We both deserved nominations at the very least for our performance, as the staff swallowed our sob story and were very sympathetic to us. What they couldn’t give us though, was any guarantee on the time or destination. A few flights had been cancelled, due to a regional one day strike, and there was already a queue waitin to return to the UK. As it would be another 8 hours till they had a full workforce, we had the pleasure of spending the night in the comfort of the departure lounge.
our hopes were raised once more an hour later, when she approached us again.Unfortunately, she had the same look on her face, which meant there was mixed news. There was a definite place free on the next British flight, but it was landing in Exeter. Clever clogs didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, as he was obliged to accept the offer and this time he didn’t return. Although it wasn’t ideal for him, at least he was on his way home for the Saturday game. I genuinely had no idea how long I’d have to wait and had visions of being in one of them documentaries about people who live in the airport terminal. They spent their lives keeping one step in front of security just to exist. All the chairs were taken so we had to doss down on the floor and wait our turn to get seated when things got goin in the mornin. Before we tried to get some kip, we needed to suss out our cash flow, cos even when we pooled our Spanish coins together it totalled less than a tenner. That was just enough to get us the odd ham or cheese roll and a drink each. When that was gone we would have to rely on the skills picked up at various service stations on coach trips back home. I had a twenty pound note in me arse pocket, but because of the uncertainty over the flights, I wanted to keep hold of it till we took off. It’s not easy tryin to sleep lodged between Mr Angry from Stafford and the feral brats of a family from Leeds and we hardly got any shut eye as the night really dragged by. At the start of the day shift, when the walkout ended, it was announced that passengers who had been delayed would get priority. This didn’t include us, and although the reps were once again sympathetic to our plight, we were still well down the list. Even though this was bad news, at least the wait for a chair was nearly over as the airport got back to normal. When we finally sat down after 11 hours on the floor, I was that fucked, it felt like falling into a four poster. The few hours’ kip sorted me out, and as there were no showers, the best I could manage was a full body flannel wash in the bogs. By then it was just before three, and we were startin to worry about gettin back for the Sheff Wed home game the next day. Our hopes were raised half an hour later, when one of the girls made a beeline for us, but she looked like she’d lost a fiver and found a pound. A seat was available on a Manchester flight, but only the one, so we had to toss up to decide who got it. I was gutted when he won, but before I could even start feeling sorry for myself, he was back in the lounge after a passenger turned up to claim the last spot. We agreed that he would have the next spare, and told the girl that we were willing to land anywhere in mainland Britain. Most of the stranded passengers had now flew home, and
At six o clock, I’d been stuck for 18 hours and overseen 3 shift changes. I only had enough Pesetas for one more drink so I treated myself to a nice cold beer. When that had been dispatched, I fancied a few more and toyed with the idea of exchanging some of my back-up funds. It meant goin against my gut instincts, and luckily for me, it was a decision I didn’t have to make. Before seven, one of the evening reps came over with a massive smile on her face and told me there was room on a Manchester flight. I felt more relieved than happy and rewarded her with a big, sweaty, smelly hug. In spite of this, she still let me use the office phone to sort a lift once I landed. After thanking all the staff, I danced through the gate, up the steps, and waited for takeoff. Even though I had my seatbelt on and my bag in the above locker, I was still expecting a tap on the shoulder before we left. The tap didn’t come, and we departed on time, with me still on board. As we took to the sky, I let out a sigh of relief like I’d just had my first toke of the day. When they started dishing out the scoff, I started to feel a bit sorry for clever clogs.(like fuck I did) He’d won the toss, but If everything went to plan, I would be home before he had got past the West Country. It did go to plan, and I was tempted to kiss the tarmac as we went down the steps, before remembering what city we had landed at. We met at the match the next day and swapped stories; I got home at eleven, and beat him by over three hours. He arrived in limey after changing at Bristol. I woke up Sunday mornin feelin delicate, and thought about the last five days. I’d seen the lads in the Bernebau, and had an unforgettable adventure. But because of the result, I was once again dreading meetin up with other lot. I volunteered him to sort the claim out, cos He’d done it legally before, and although it took ages, we got a tidy wad each in the end. Phil Rowlands
Everton & Me We want you to answer six questions which define you and your relationship with this great club of ours. Phil Redmond gets us started... What was the first game you ever went to? Everton 2 Sheffield Utd 1 17th March 1973. A cold bright day. I was sat in the upper Bullens with my dad and my disinterested brother. Tony Currie got sent off for cutting John Connelly in half just below us. Joe Harper, my new hero got the winner and I was hooked. I remember the green pitch, free programmes, semi circles and lads with scarves round their wrists. Who was the first player you idolised? First hero was probably Joe Harper. Our record signing and he was little like me. He didn't last a year. What game takes you back to your childhood? Probably the Andy King derby in 1978. It was first v second, in the league, with a massive build up. Both teams were flying. I was in the top balcony with my dad right in the corner by the church. It was one of those ace warm, sunny October days that are made for going the match and I had my dad in the ground at half one or something stupid. A Police dog display beforehand made it like a cup final. Andy kings winner and the resultant celebrations of the first derby win for seven years and the first one I could remember aged 13 made it almost like winning a trophy. At that point probably the best day of my life.
What is your perfect Everton moment? My perfect Everton moment is when I come to the top of the steps and see the pitch. If I do it as Z Cars kicks in, whatever the game the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. If that feeling ever goes it'll be time to jib it. There seems to be so many Evertonians who appear to hate the club these days. I'm still like a ten year old most of the time. What is the one personal Everton memory you will take to your grave? Adrian Heath's header sailing into the net at Highbury in the last minute of the 1984 cup semi against Southampton. It was at that moment I realised I was about to see Everton win something. After watching the other shower rack up trophy after trophy it was the realisation of a dream coming true. Describe Everton in six words... Simply, part of who I am.
Please send your own answers to these questions along with a photo for inclusion in future issues.
The wonder of you ‐ The Liver Birds (part two of two) So, the derby, like Christmas Day when Phoebe Cates’ character is talking about her dad’s demise in Gremlins, came and went, and my idea about usurping the reds by stealing the identity of the other liver bird, now seem a little less appealing, if it were to associate us at any time with the hideous behaviours shown therein. Sliding on your knees, comedy celebrations, aiming for the Achilles, wishing we were dead... But, I hope it got people thinking at least. Like I said last time, the whole thing about the birds was for a website which wanted to focus on the wonder of the north, and in my section, Liverpool in particular, so, given that I had focused on the myths that surround the two copper creatures atop the buildings, I decided I would just have to prove or disprove the theory (delete where appropriate) and just had to find out the truth through some investigative journalism. All I knew was that those birds are a cormorant, an eagle, or something else – a dove or a spoonbill perhaps, for the twitchers amongst us – maybe even a phoenix. “We have something no zoo has ever seen, no museums have ever secured, nor the world’s wealth can buy – the Liver Bird” (Eric Hardy, 1934) Peter Sissons once described them as ‘the most distinctive and recognisable civil emblems in the UK’ and Don McLean apparently said that ‘… those two Liver birds can sing, we just can’t hear them… but they are singing!’ Think of Planet of the Apes, and the buried statue of liberty. Now, replace it with the two empty domes that the birds currently perch on… So, I first did some reading around the birds and discovered some interesting facts about them. I asked around some colleagues and family
members about them first, to gauge what they knew, or had grown up believing, naively imagining that some Liverpudlian youngsters ‘believe’ in the liver birds just as others will in Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny. It turns out that not many did. Some hadn’t even heard the story! To widen the net even further, I e-mailed the ECHO to ask if any of the readers of their Flashback nostalgia section every Saturday, knew anything about this myth and where it came from. You see, I have always been fascinated by the process of lonely hearts, or more specifically, those ‘once seen’ or ‘rush hour crush’ messages that people host in the hope of finding that person their path once or often crossed with, just in case it was meant to be. I really like how the Echo offers a lo-fi Friends & Families Reunited service too, called Old Pals, and thought this might help me trace someone who could shed more light on the story I was following. Part of my message stated “…I really enjoy the Flashback feature every week, particularly the Old Pals section, and wondered if you had ever done a feature on this topic or wanted to? Or, at the very least, could I through the newspaper attempt to trace any couples who might have fallen in love by the Liver Building or the other two birds in the city, and discover their stories? Thanks so much for reading my e-mail and in advance of your reply. Look forward to hearing from you.”
I didn’t hear from her. Typical Echo. I then put the feelers out via social networking sites too, as everybody does whenever they need / want anything nowadays, also, to no avail. There was nothing I could now do except go back and visit myself. It’s a strange thing when you live in a city like this and get used to what are essentially world famous buildings (still a UNESCO heritage site, regardless of recent and potential architectural erections nearby) almost taking it for granted. I am sure that many of the people who work nearby, and pass the birds every day, or even in the Liver building itself, have grown oblivious to their charms and mystique too. However, it was quite exciting embarking on a trip to just observe them and the people that passed by one Saturday afternoon in September. Remember how I told you that the female bird was looking out to sea, keeping an eye on the men? Those men include a statue of Billy Fury. For those uninitiated amongst you, Billy (real name Ronald Wycherley) was a huge star in the late 50’s, a sort of Scouse Elvis, for whom the Beetles (later to be renamed) once unsuccessfully auditioned as a backing band.
Mine and Billy’s paths had crossed a few years back, when I embarked upon a series of covert trips to fortune tellers in Blackpool to record their messages and track what then happened to me. My research taught me that Billy apparently regularly visited a relative of one of ‘my’ psychics who told him he would die aged 42, which he did. He was also a keen birdwatcher, and featured on the cover of the last single released by The Smiths. Arguably Billy’s most famous song Halfway to Paradise (he did of course also sing Wondrous Place...) became the theme of my MA show, and to this day, it remains my song of choice when we frequent a karaoke bar. It’s funny to see the older generation’s response to my poor attempts at replicating his fantastic voice and performances: generally it goes down well, and they share their stories about him. Anyway there is a bronze statue there, overlooked by the female bird, of Billy in his famous stance. He is pointing back at her. The day we visited the statue, someone who loved him had placed a peony in his hand and a bouquet at his feet, featuring a simple message: BILLY FORGET HIM NEVER L.O.L. SHIRL XX
My marveling at this sight was interrupted by a couple, still very much in love, of whom the wife was wearing a handmade t-shirt which simply said BILLY FURY: A THOUSAND STARS. We got talking about ‘beautiful Bill’ - this could well have been the mysterious Shirl, or the peony donor, but I was too intrigued to ask. As they left, she wanted her photo taken with ‘him’ before they wandered off towards the Liver buildings, hand in hand… Where was I? The Billy Fury fans were walking towards the Liver Buildings, yes. Talking of which, do you remember I also told you that the other (male) statue was looking over the city, watching on the women – the ‘other’ liver ‘birds’. Many people will have already associated this whole week’s focus with a Carla Lane comedy series about a seemingly ever-changing couple of female housemates that was popular in the 60s and 70s and made a sort of comeback in the 90s. The only ones I know were the one who went on to be T-Bag, and then Nerys Hughes, the younger version of whom I had a minor crush on a few years ago,
therefore I was thrilled when she sent me a message for my week on Wondrous Place. Anyway… It was time to cross Mann Island and get in their shadow. Here was the time for their wings to flap, or more catastrophically, for them to fly away, should an honest man and virtuous woman pass by. First, two teenage couples walked by, arm in arm. I looked up. Nothing happened. An older couple passed by, and took photos. A family crossed the road, and dropped something. Still nothing. I was dejected. We had a drink in the quietly tucked away Oyster Bar. In there, a drunken girl prodded uninterested men, first asking if they lived nearby, then telling them she was single and looking for action, and a leery middle aged oddball named Trevor licked his lips. Perhaps there was an air of romance around here, after all? We escaped. Couples in the early stages of their love affairs picnicked in the gardens of St. Nicholas’s church, the burial place of many a sailor. I was feeling more optimistic. In there, I found an intriguing family photo, and a strangely discarded and a post-it note, asking simply: TREVOR? Was it an homage to our tricky ex winger, I wonder? Some people would probably be aghast at my description of Liverpool as an epicentre of romance: Courtney Love, for example, who said of the city in 1982 that ‘if it was a person I wouldn’t sleep with it’ and ok, so my experiment failed, and the liver birds didn’t respond to what passed by below them, and the city still exists. There wasn’t so much of a shiver, let alone a flapping of those vast copper wings, on that day at least. Who is to say though, that it didn’t happen when I’d gone? Or that it doesn’t happen every day, just when none of us are looking? It is, after all, a wondrous place: even without any contemporary links to Everton F. C. The day came to an end. I’m a little disappointed that my tale didn’t end in the birds screaming to life, like those creatures in Ghostbusters, and wreaking havoc on the city below. Or rather, quite relieved... Carl Bernard Bartels
7 Ways To Love A winter coat special. Thanks to Weavers Door et al
A small selection of the things we like... Rohan Nightfall Jacket
a real class jacket. Made from more wool than Leeds United in the 1970s - and is incredibly warm. The picture here doesn't do it justice obviously - check out the website - but safe to say you would be the best dressed in the Director's Box and even Best Dressed Bill would cast envious glances in your direction. Penfield Eska Quilted Jacket
A toasty warm puffa jacket that will allow you to stand on Goodison Road for hours selling this damn magazine without moaning too much.
Barbour Jacket
Heritage
Penfield Hoosac Hooded Mountain Parka
Then again if you're happy in the Park End then this smart quilted jacket is everything you need. Quite short so it won't get trapped in the seats as you keep getting up and down as that fella goes the toilet for the fifth time.
Maybe half way in this lovely Everton (well it says Colbalt) blue Parka. Very tasty. Will keep your knees warm in the Family Enclosure.
Whitby
It's in a striking yellow which will allow you to seen on Goodison Road on those dark winter nights selling this damn magazine. Universal Works Scout Parka If you're not a fan of yellow then this safe navy parka is probably more your cup of tea. Lovely. Wouldn't sell as many issues though.
Oliver Spencer Farringdon Mac Beautifully made by the brilliant Oliver Spencer. This is
Spiewak The Waxed N3B Snorkel Jacket Then again, if you want to wear a coat you last did in junior school get this Spiewak Snorkel. Be aware though, if you run on the pitch a Bobby will pull you back by the hood. That's the cayote fur hood!
WSAG WINTER SOUNDTRACK Lovers' Carvings - Bibio Listen To Some Music - BMX Bandits Searchlight - Mercury 13 Answer Song - Saint Etienne Won't Turn Back - Vic Godard Home - Sarah Cracknell Dawn Chorus - Beth Orton The Caterpillar Tango - Jesus, Baby! Winter Turns To Spring - Michael Head The Boxer - Bill Ryder-Jones Incapable of Love - Dexys (Love Is) Alive In My Heart - Andy Lewis Sweetness in Her Spark - Lightships Streets of Your Town - Go-Betweens Overjoyed - Shack Like The Morning Sun - BMX Bandits Crocodile - John Head All Tomorrow's Parties - Velvet Underground And Gone - Jez Kerr Love Is A Serious Business - Alfie Davidson Amulet (featuring Peter Coyle) - Pharao Black Magic Disco Lights - The Tea Street Band Love On Top - BeyoncĂŠ Reachin' - Phase II Be Happy Children - Paul Weller Be My Friend - People Get Ready Zcars (Everton Christmas Advert)
WSAG REVIEW 2012 These are the things EVERTON THINGS @ste_topbalc Gibson (future captain) goal v city. Giants in the city. Two Jelavic winners v spurs. Felli bossing utd. @WeddingPA the 4am semi final trip to wembley with my 10yr old, ok we lost but ace performance, top banter, and what a memory for him!! @IJRobbo highlight has to be beating United in the 1st game. Goodison at its best, a proper bearpit. @The_real_wilko sunderland away fa cup
@SatchmoKilnt finishing my last day of radiotherapy and heading straight to goodison to watch us beat man.u. sometimes everything just aligns @DaveSpowart arrival of Darron Gibson (how wrong I was), Jelavic & Mirallas. Off pitch, club's perfect response to H'Boro @ianocally It's got to be the way we handled the Hillsborough events,when we get stuff right,we ooze class. @SatchmoKilnt swansea away. in the home end nearest to us a local scamp stood up doing a slit throat gesture and started waving
a LFC shirt at us all. most bizarre
@blue_wooster Jelavic's Kev-Campbell-esque scoring streak and Miralles making Andre Wisdom look like Norman Wisdom. @mikemurphy1979 Leighton Baines, & the fella in front who mixes tender grandfatherly chat with his mate's lad with venomous abuse for the park. @MurphyRichie Probably Sunderland away in the cup although our performances at Swansea and Villa this season were fantastic @mickupfield Knowing that we have a team that is competitive and has the bottle when 2-0 down to fight back. @willcooper Jelavic, the return of Bainaar, Fellaini v man Utd, the 4-4, Sunderland away, Swansea away, The Straq v Chelsea. Ta
@Willtheyounger Has to be Fergie's assertion that, under the lights, this crowd influences the officials! @NeilHalton Sylvain Distin on Twitter. @daveblueegan 1-0 v man city with Gibson scoring, Jelavic unveiled and discovering Pienaar was returning after the game. We were back @nrath1878 Has to Sunderland away doesn't it? That was a special night. Stephen Connor Going straight the semi after the best house party ever (Wearherall spinning in a low ceilinged basement in deepest darkest Macclesfield) should've been it but as ever Everton conspired to balls it right up. So I'll go with Jelavic's winner against Spurts the other week with the Old Trafford comeback running it a close second. Ben McCann It's a very close call between: 1) 4-4 @ Old Trafford, ended up in the posh seats but was determined to not be silent, sure enough a
few other blues revealed themselves and shared a bit of a 'moment' when the 4th went in - made it even sweeter that it cost them the league... 2) 2-1 v Spurs, maybe a bit rosetinted because it's still fresh in the memory, but who knows it might just be the difference between us getting into Europe or not Shaun Stephen Jones Away to sunderland in the cup amazing performance crowd was mental extra proud that night to support our amazing football club. James O'Neill I'm not sure if this actually happened, I might have dreamed it. Hibbert scoring a goal and the celebration afterwards. Alex Langley Sunderland replay Paul Owens Beating Citeh in Chelsea in consecutive home games, Jelli's run
last year, the Sunderland away cup tie, and the two games against United. And the club giving me and my mates free tickets for the cup game against Blackpool. Anthony Parry Taking over 6,000 to Sunderland on a tuesday night to see the blues. Brilliant awayday! Colin Regan First half at Villa...a masterclass of pass and move.... Steve Everton F Gerrard making a Cunt of himself in the Derby. Tim Calder Watching the Utd fans leave the bar in Lanzarote en masse at the final whistle, feeling good about the team and not caring one bit about my sunburn... Mike Williams Hitting 30 points before Christmas Andy McNicholl Injury time against Spurs proper legs and arms aots moment
Gez Veno beating spurs, excellent Kim Jones ....coming back from 2-0 against the reds something that would not of happened in the past.
@DaveSpowart TV: Borgen, Romanzo Criminale. Music: three song suite closing Beach Boys album & John Head at Leggate theatre
 @mikemurphy1979
OTHER THINGS
@Paul_Burdett - tv highlight has to be bbc4's the bridge. Saga Noren - a definite ja ! @bagatel1 music- when they played "He ain't Heavy" at Goodison. @IJRobbo Music/TV highlights - Dexys "One day I'm going to soar"/ Saga in 'The Bridge'
@daveblueegan my daughter being born @BarrieWhite1980 cliched etc, but the opening ceremony and super Saturday for me.
Frank Ocean's terrific sound, new books of Kevin Barry & Ewan Morrison getting better & better (& of course, Being: Risible). @MurphyRichie Gotye (somebody) , Borgen and the Bridge cos Scandanavians do it better apart from the so so Lilyhammer @alanmxyzptlk Frank Ocean / Beasts of the Southern Wild / Breaking Bad / West Coast USA road trip / Quitting my office job / Jft96 @antonialou doing the london marathon, Murray winning US open & the entire Olympics / Paralympics with the cheer they brought.
Mike Williams Music: Discovering Anais Mitchell and her back catalogue. TV: White Heat on BBC2. Film: Gotta be Skyfall. Life: Successfully passing another Open University course. Peter Connor Music Mick Head last Wednesday Film - not been the cinema this year but a snide Madagascar 4 DVD done the trick for me... TV - Boardwalk empire season 3 Life - Still breathing, and watching a very good Everton side.. Mike Williams In the last twenty four hours I've finally watched both 'The Descendants' and 'Hugo'. Both moved me to tears Stephen Connor Fillum Moonrise Kingdom Single - lkindness House/Paqua - The Visitor LP - Land of Light - Land of Light Compilation - Personal
apparent bandwagonjumper, but I can't think of anything better) Life highlight - safe arrival of the little'un TV - The Thick of It/any time Malcolm Tucker is on TV
Space Electronic Soul 1974 - 84 Shoes - Oi Polloi X Clarks Wallabees TV - Eastbound & Down Tim Calder At last a reasonable backhand drive in tennis, closely followed by Eddie Vedder solo show at the Manchester Apollo...
Ben McCann Alright then, off the top of my head: Single - Under The Westway, Blur (could have been new Steve Mason track Fight Them Back) Gig - Pulp @ Sheffield Arena, Album - Jake Bugg (I know that makes me an
Jonathan Greenbank Music, the courteeners at manchester arena; tv, boardwalk empire; film, the muppets; life - getting married (closely followed by the city, united, spurs, middlesbrough victories) Kieron Rathe Music: Paul Weller 'Sonik Kicks' Dexys 'One day I'm Going to Soar' and St Etienne 'Words and Music' DVD/TV: 'Mad Men' Life: 1, Leonard Cohen at Olympisch Stadion Amsterdam the night after being sat in the Bullens Road for Everton 1-0 Man Utd and 2, the final establishment cave in over the real Hillsborough 'truth' and pride in the families and the city of
Liverpool for the fight for justice.
Andy Wilcock 22nd December 2012 Matt Haresign Steve Hughes live in leeds: Pete Walton A bloke called Michael Head..... Paul Owens Emma by the fantastic Hummingbirds. Robbie Wilcock Lists are for wools.
WHEN SKIES ARE GREY whenskiesaregrey@btinternet.com @wsagfanzine http://www.facebook.com/when.skiesaregrey.1